From the Corner
by coffeeonthepatio
Summary: While Hermione, seeing her marriage is at a dead-end, moves back to her parents with Rose and Hugo, Snape finds he is no longer alone in his apothecary in Knockturn Alley - her name is Ophelia and she's four. And Ophelia's his.
1. Chapter 1

_**I do not own any of the characters you might recognize and make no money with this story.**_

_**xx  
**_

Hermione Weasley put her face in her hands and sighed. "No, you don't have to go. I can take Rose and Hugo to my parents," she said to the tablecloth.

"I will move back to the Burrow," Ron replied sadly.

She looked up quickly and shook her head. "My mum is waiting for us."

"What?" his temper – the temper she had thought had died down now – had burned itself out – flared to life again.

"I told her we would be coming," she said tiredly. "Ron, do you think I made this decision spontaneously? Decided this morning that I don't love you and can't be with you any more?"

"Yes!"

"No, I didn't," she replied calmly. "I want a divorce," she added and got up. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"Whatever you want, Miss Granger," he spat after her but she didn't look back. No sense in doing so. She didn't want to remain married just because of their children – and Ron and her? Over. Over. They didn't talk any more. When they did communicate, they fought.

He was an auror – more away than at home and ever since she could send Hugo as well as Rose to kindergarten, she had gone back to work, too. They barely saw each other – with her being transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (even if her three-year-old had not liked kindergarten at first and wanted to stay with mummy) and when they did, they either spoke nothing – or fought about the small things.

Housework. The way he stacked the magical dishwasher. The way she did. The way she made pancakes, the way he did. His sweaty jerseys after a Saturday spent with Harry or at the Burrow, lying on the floor in a heap.

She was just tired of it. And she realised – a few months back – that she just did not love her husband any more. She had tried again – had tried to fall back in love with him with all means possible (had even had a quick pregnancy-scare about a month back) but nothing had worked. No – it probably just wasn't meant to be.

She slowly walked up the stairs in the house they had bought in Godric's Hollow just before Rose had been born and he had insisted on a house close to Harry – away from his own family and in the country.

Hermione paused at the bedroom – she had not slept in there for four weeks. No – she had taken to sleeping on a couch in Rose's room. Rose had been – surprised by this – and, in time-honoured tradition of Granger-women, had asked question after question. Which Hermione had answered – with a little white lie.

"Daddy's snoring is keeping me from sleeping, love," she had explained and Rose – had been content. Sometimes, apparently, the five and a half year old girl had been kept awake by his loud breathing as well.

Ron had been surprised as well. Probably. She couldn't. She just couldn't. And that morning, she knew it was time. Had called her mother (she knew why she had insisted on a phone), and had told her that she would be coming home. With the children.

And Judith Granger had understood. She had known about her daughter's trouble in that marriage – had most likely even seen them before Hermione herself had. She wasn't sure. But she would go home.

And Rose and Hugo – they would be delighted, happy, to spend some more time with their grandparents.

'Soon,' Hermione told herself and with tears prickling behind her eyes, she walked into her former bedroom, shrunk the bags she had packed while Ron had been at work, and put them in the pockets of her trousers. She bit her lip.

This – this what came now – was the hardest part. She did not believe in lying to her children when it was not absolutely necessary (as the excuse with the snores had been very necessary – by that time, she still had believed, sort of, that a few nights away from him could make her feel differently) – and here, here was where she had to tell the truth. To a certain extent.

xx

Severus Snape was not a pleasant man. He hadn't been before the incident with the snake, he hadn't been during his recovery, and he wasn't now. He was far from pleasant. But he believed, still, in doing his duty.

There wasn't much – these days – that was his duty. Minding the apothecary he owned now – unnamed – in Knockturn Alley (since he had absolutely no interest in acquiring a place somewhere others would call a respectable area), stocking it, selling ingredients that were probably illegal – probably not. Making potions he sold for horrendous prices but were bought by those who needed it. Those were his duties.

And – the girl. A duty he'd had for about a week already.

"Sit in that chair," he said quietly and pointed at one standing behind his counter at the apothecary and the little girl – around four, maybe five, scrambled up, her robes, old and worn and a little too small, twisted around herself and made it difficult but when he wanted to go over and help, she scowled, much like he did, and tried harder.

She nodded solemnly and sat still, her hands in her lap as he went about to undo the wards on his shop – opening it up to Squiffy Mary Kelly who already stood in front of the apothecary, waiting for her sober-up potion. He turned around, not sparing a glance at the girl, and summoned a vial. There was no need to have that drunk, smelling bit of stuff in there with the girl.

"Here," he said gruffly and pushed the vial in the dirty hands of her. "It'll go on your scroll – but tomorrow, you will pay something. Or this was the last of it."

"Thank you, Master Snape," she slurred, gulped it down and handed him the vial. "Thank you, Master Snape."

He nodded and turned away, banging the door shut. It was too late that he noticed the fear on the girl's face.

xx

"Rosie?" she entered her daughter's room where her eldest sat, practising reading. "Come on, sweetheart, we will go to grandma and grandpa."

"Why?" the girl frowned and pushed her auburn hair behind her ear impatiently. "Is it because of daddy's snores?"

She shook her head and smiled weakly. "No. We'll just stay there for a while."

"Are you getting a div – div-...?"

Hermione crouched on the floor next to her daughter and hugged her instinctively. She held the girl to her chest, and it hurt to hold back from crying. She knew it was her own fault. She was the one who left. But it still hurt.

Hurt.

"Mummy?" Rose asked and pushed away. "Don't tell Hugo. He won't understand yet."

She couldn't help the bit of laughter that escaped her throat – strangled though it was. No, Hugo was too much of a Weasley to understand it yet. Head through the wall, that was her baby. Rose was much more sensible. Rose was older than her five and a half. Hermione was a little worried about her little one. A bit bullied already. A mini-Hermione. With Ronald's straight hair and his freckles.

"I won't tell Hugo. We'll just go visit the grandparents, okay?" she kissed her daughter and picked her up.

xx

He did not know about children much less about children who had just lost their mother. He did not know anything about them. And she was so – self-sufficient. She dressed herself, ate herself, went to bed by herself and rarely spoke. She was obedient – sat in the chair and when he had pushed a book in her little hands, she had pretended to read it – upside down.

He had let her – she would figure it out herself – and there had been another customer.

Still, it was quiet in the apothecary now and he could turn to her and watch her. She still sat, pale, with his dark, lank hair and his eyes.

He did not remember much of his own childhood to know what his mother had done with him. Had sent him out to play, probably. But here – no child played in Knockturn Alley and those who did – no, he did not want her to play with them. Even though he doubted that she would.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said in a small voice suddenly from the chair in the corner.

"What did I tell you to address me as?" he asked sharply.

"I'm sorry, father," she replied, shyly.

"What is it?"

"I'm a little thirsty, father," she said, and was apparently – even scared of asking.

What he was doing – was wrong. But what was the right way? To cuddle her? Pick her up and carry her around? What? He did not know. "You need not ask. The pumpkin juice is in the back."

"But," she whispered quickly, "you said not to go into the back alone."

He sighed. Of course he had. It was dangerous – for a curious child. "Come," he said and strode quickly behind the heavy black velvet curtain that separated the apothecary from the back where he stored his ingredients – his potions – and where the stairs to his quarters were.

Severus quickly poured a tall glass of pumpkin juice and handed it to the girl. She thanked him meekly, politely, and drank greedily. A little thirsty? Understatement. And she had sat there for hours – just looking curiously at him, at his shop, the shelves, the counter, the cauldron bubbling there, the cash register. Him. She had again and again stared at him.

It was natural, he supposed for her – to be so intimidated. One week in the Wizarding World and it was still all new for her, of course. As was having a father.

But – it was unnerving to see her sitting there – day after day, just sitting, not speaking.

If only he knew what to do.

xx

"Hullo mum," Hermione smiled at her mother. The smile was weak, she knew and insincere. But it was the best she could do at the moment with Rosie clinging to her hand and Hugo almost strangling her with his tight grip around her neck.

"Come in, child," Judith Granger replied and she looked at Hermione seriously for a moment before her face broke out in a beaming smile. "And my babies," she laughed and Rosie jumped into her grandmother's arms and Hugo struggled to get down from his mother's arms.

"Grandma!" the both cried and Judith had a moment to look at Hermione. The younger woman knew that she looked dreadful. The bun in her neck was messy, strands of her had fallen out and framed, unprettily, her face, and tickled her neck. She really needed to get it cut. There were rings around her eyes, as thick as two fingers and as dark as the night sky and she knew that there were red blotches on her cheeks, not concealed by make-up. She knew. But still – she smiled at her mother.

"Go and find grandpa. I think he might be out in the garden," she told her grandchildren smilingly and both received a smack on the bottom and ran off. "And?", she asked, getting up from her crouching position with knees cracking.

"I left," Hermione choked and as much as she fought – she couldn't hold back the tears. "I left and I'm crying."

Judith Granger clicked with her tongue – the way she always did – and had always done, ever since Hermione could remember – and quickly wrapped her daughter in her arms. "There, there, darling, it's alright. Let's just have a cup of tea and a sit down."

She nodded – and sobbed and let her mother lead her to the kitchen where she sank down, her face in her hands, and cried for her marriage. The marriage that would be dissolved soon.

xx

"If you take it more than a week, you'll get addicted. I'm forced to tell you this," Severus explained with a sneer, "but of course I don't care. If you get addicted, it'll be better for my business."

"Ever the smily face, ain't ya?" the customer asked. Customer was maybe excessive. Someone who came in, bought what they couldn't – or wouldn't – get in Diagon Alley. Or anywhere else. His was the place to go to if you needed a potion that your wife shouldn't know about, or anyone else.

"Pay, take the vial, get out," he drawled – glad that the snake had not taken his voice.

He wasn't a pleasant man – and his daughter was afraid of him. Her face showed it clearly. She had his face when he had been older and he had seen the first time his father had chased his mother through the house – and had managed to get her. With his belt.

Only – he had no idea what he could do to make her less afraid. It seemed – his words did not help.

He tried to remember – and came up with something. Something that had helped him when he had been a child and his mother had cried and he was scared.

"Come, child," he said briskly and watched her jump from the chair and closed up his apothecary to go into Diagon Alley for the first time with his daughter.

xx


	2. Chapter 2

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx  
**_

"Mummy, Mummy, Grandpa said we can go pluck slees with him," Hugo came running towards Hermione on his little legs and threw himself at her.

She looked a bit puzzled for a moment, "Sloes, Hugo."

The little boy nodded impatiently and looked up at his mother. "Can we go?"

"Scoot," she told him and smiled over the rim of her teacup and he was off. Leaving his mother looking at his grandmother.

"They'll be fine here," Judith said quietly. "You know how your father is. He'll have them outside as long as it's possible and by the time they have to come back in they're worn out and won't ask questions. He always did with you."

"Can't have stopped me from asking questions," Hermione remarked. "Ron complained about it occasionally."

"He complained about _that_?" she asked. "Darling, asking questions is in your blood. It's what you do. No, let me correct that, it _is_ you."

Hermione shrugged. "I loved him, Mum. I really did."

Judith Granger sighed and took hold of her daughter's hand. "I know."

"And now it's over. I can't wrap my mind around it."

"There's no need now for that. You need time. And it'll come to you. You should take a couple of days off from work."

Hermione laughed softly. "I have. I planned even this in advance and put it during my summer holiday. I couldn't take it earlier because of the transfer. He was mad about that as well."

She frowned and lay her head on the table, letting her mother stroke her cheek and the hair out of her face.

xx

He tried to walk slower but that alone did not come naturally to him and it greatly annoyed him. But the girl showed great determination to keep up with him – and she was frowning and her face scrunched up. But her legs were short and she was young and of course she couldn't walk as fast.

But if they continued in her pace – he could forget about reopening the apothecary. He stopped and frowned – and it was the same frown she wore – and took a deep breath before he bent down and wanted to pick her up, carry her – the only way he could hope to be back in time with a child that had never apparated – but her eyes widened and he knew she was still afraid.

"I just want to carry you," he explained slowly, trying to sound gentle – but obviously failing since she shrank away slightly. "Child, I do not hurt you," he added – angry at himself, at her, at her mother. "Remember that."

She nodded silently – shyly - and lifted her little arms as she walked two steps towards him. He rolled his eyes and picked her simply up.

He couldn't remember ever to have carried a child that small – but the girl made it simple. She shifted almost immediately and almost sat on his hip, her legs wrapped around him and her arms around his neck – tightly, but not too tightly and he had his arm underneath her bottom.

She weighed almost nothing. And she was tiny. And – she needed to bathe.

"You will take a bath later," he said as he quickly walked towards Diagon Alley. He knew people would be staring, would whisper, would point. He only rarely ventured to the respectable Alley – especially since he could get most things at Knockturn. His food, his clothes, everything else. He knew the stares. He knew the whispers. He knew what people said when he went there in his black coat and robes. He knew and he was used to it – and even more – he did not mind. What they said had no impact on his life – especially – oh the irony of it – since they all came to his apothecary when they needed something special. And then stopped talking.

But – she wasn't. She was blinded by the light and there was a gasp from those who saw him first and he felt her, probably instinctively – hiding her face in his neck and tightened her hold on him.

She was afraid of him – but apparently she was even more afraid of the other people pointing at them. He raised his eyebrows dangerously, glaring back – staring back – and quickened his steps.

Inside, pick something up, outside, back home. And she would get a bath and a nap. That's what he always had to endure after going somewhere with his mother.

"Where we going, sir?" she asked timidly in his neck. "Want to go Mummy."

He wanted to close his eyes – this was not good. He had wanted her to call him father – one simple reason. She was his daughter. He had known since before she had been born. Granted, he had never seen her until a week ago but she was his daughter and everyone who had two more or less working eyes in his head could see that. She looked like him – except for his nose but that could still grow, couldn't it? She had his hair, his eyes, even his ears, for Merlin's sake. His long fingers. And a young girl, even her age, in an apothecary in Knockturn Alley? Making her call him father warded off a lot of people. A lot of sick, strange people – who would not have hesitated to – but no.

She was his duty. And protecting her was his duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

She would be safe by calling him father – letting everyone know that they both acknowledged it.

"We're going to Mister Vanderlego," he replied swiftly and did not know how to tell her that she could never get back to her mother. At least not any better than that idiot Muggle at this idiot Muggle youth welfare office. "Mummy is an angel now." What a stupid thing to say. And – to top it off: "You get to live with Daddy now!" That chipper tone – he had wanted to wring that Muggle's neck. The child did not even know she had a father – much less a _daddy_.

The girl seemed to frown but she said nothing.

And he just stepped into Vanderlego's shop and put her on her feet back on the ground. "Pick one," he said, gesturing towards the shelf with the stuffed animals.

She looked up with big eyes – letting them roam over the shelves full of bears, dragons, hippogriffs, snakes, owls and other magical creatures and wrung her little hands.

xx

"Stir that, will you?" she pushed a bowl of dough in her daughter's hands and nodded at her. "Scones later."

Hermione nodded and Judith knew how much she was suffering. Her girl – and her telling her that she had always suspected something like this would happen – that would not help.

Judith Granger had not warmed to Ronald Weasley the way she should have to a son-in-law. He had no manners, ate like a pig, he had treated Hermione like a friend, not like a wife. He had been a good father – that much she had to admit – but other than that? Not much. He had always insisted on taking Hermione to his family for every major holiday, everything. And he – somehow, she knew – had not felt comfortable around them. Maybe it was the fact that he was always surrounded by wizards and witches – and just felt not as curious about their world as, for instance, his father. Arthur, as he insisted they call him, always asked them question after question after question about things that were normal to them. But at least he had not kept the children from coming to see them regularly.

Rosie and Hugo were wonderful. Both of them – Rose so much like Hermione when she had been that age. Always wanting to know more – finding out things and Judith Granger merely hoped that Rosie would not have the phase during which she decided to collect dead rodents from the garden and bury them to find the bones and study them later. No, she really hoped that Rosie would not enter the phase. That had been – frankly – disgusting and she always had to console little Hermione when the bones were not there any more (and she couldn't really explain that the Wilson's cat next door really liked dead, rotting rodents better than fresh ones).

Hugo – Hugo was funny and bouncing and curious and brave. Very brave. And always acted before he thought and here, the tricycle (Hermione never allowed them to fly their little brooms at the their house – too many Muggles) was his weapon - always on it – fast and not looking where he was going. And then running to Mummy or Grandma when he had hurt himself and his chubby, baby knees were bleeding, or his elbows grazed. On the other hand, he loved to play with all the things in the dentistry (and yes, she had once caught him trying to drill a hole in the chair with a burr).

She would have to cancel some appointments – or tell her husband to take them. Even though she didn't work as much any more – she still wanted to be with her daughter and her grandchildren. Wanted to support her.

Because – really, she understood her being so hurt and crying and aching. She understood and Hermione was – after all was said and done – all the drama, all the tears after the war, the fights they had – her little girl. And her little girl needed her now.

"You know you can stay as long as you like," she said softly and hugged her Hermione from behind – smelling the hair and her little girl. And was glad she had her home. Until she was alright to go out on her own again. Find a flat, life on her own. But not yet. Not yet.

xx

Jonathan Granger looked at his grandchildren with a fond smile on his face. It was rare to have them so to himself. But he felt for his girl and for those children.

It would be tough – especially the next few days and while he knew that Hermione generally came to him, he also knew that his wife was the major consoler in the family. It had always been that way. Hermione ran crying to Mummy, then, when she needed a solution to Daddy. He didn't doubt that it would go the same way now.

His girl would come to him and she would talk when she needed it.

Eventually.

He had not been surprised when she had called the day before. Her and Ron – that had been not a match made in heaven. That had been a match – he wasn't sure what kind of match. No doubt those two had somehow loved each other – but it had not been enough.

Oh, he had hoped they would last – but he doubted there was someone who knew his daughter better than he did. He watched her when she didn't see it – he had watched her since she was born and Hermione worked in a special way. She liked to think. She liked to read. She liked to know.

"Rosie, Hugo, go over there, there are some chrysanthemums that you can pick for your mother," he called to his grandchildren.

It was cold – autumn had come with a vengeance, with fog and rain and coldness and today was one of those cold, dry days and he was glad he could take the children outside for a bit – Hermione had bit the tears back with difficulties and Judith always liked to cuddle their daughter and make her cry in those situations. And it was probably best not to have the little ones in there with them.

Besides, they had the first frost and the sloes were ready to get from the trees – and he never said no to a bit of sloe gin.

And he would hear all about it anyway. Judith always talked. Sooner or later.

xx

She was fascinated by all those cuddlies up there. All kinds of animals she had never seen before. Something that was half horse, half bird. But her eyes had fallen on a dog. With three heads! It was small and squished between a snake and something that looked like – one of those animals in the fairy books that Mummy had given her once. When she had brought her to Madame Sylvie because Mummy had to work. Again. Mummy had worked so often. And she had smelled weird when she had come back home.

But – Mummy wasn't there any more and well, she did miss her. Sometimes. Sometimes, Mummy had drunk that strange smelling stuff, nicely golden coloured and then, Mummy had not been nice. Had called her a burden (and she didn't know what it meant) and that she had her fate cut out for her (and she didn't know what that meant as well).

Besides, Mummy had always called her Fiffi. And she did not like the name. It sounded like the name for a dog. Or something. But then, Mummy had gone away and yes, she was a little sad because the man who wanted her to call him father was scary. Even though, he had picked her up and Mummy hadn't done that in the longest time. And the food at sir's house was better as well – even though, she didn't understand all that, the stick, and the strange clothes and the smells and the things in jars. But the sir had said that he could not possibly call her Fiffi and had told her that she would be Ophelia from now on. And she liked that name.

Ophelia sounded important. Ophelia sounded beautiful.

But Mummy had always said that she looked like her father and that he wasn't handsome (and she thought handsome meant something like beautiful) and that she would never be pretty. And it was true. She did look like sir. And he had picked her up.

And she was allowed to take a bath. And a warm bed.

Even though it was scary.

But – he looked down at her now – and he was making that scary face again.

"Sir?" she asked meekly and looked up at him.

"Have you picked one?" he asked and it sounded – quite nice. He had a nice voice when he spoke to her like that.

"That one, please," she pointed at the little three-headed dog. She could name each of the heads and had then three plushies. Three! She never had one. Only a blanket but the aunt who had picked her up from Madame Sylvie after Mummy had not picked her up, had taken it from her and had told her to be brave because Mummy was an angel now. She didn't understand. And she wasn't sure what an angel was.

"The hellhound. But you're not going to call if Fluffy, are you?"

She shook her head, then nodded. Then shook her head again. "One head is Fluffy."

She smiled. For the first time, she smiled. She grasped the hellhound tightly and shyly, smiled up at him.

It was – an odd feeling.

xx

_**I am very glad you all want to continue reading! Please review!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx  
**_

The bath had cost him nerves – and probably the girl as well. For once, she seemed quite scared of the wand, and then, she seemed shy but that was to be expected.

The worst thing, however, was himself. Looking at it objectively – he had been clumsy at best – irresponsible at worst. She had shrunk back from him, at looked longingly at her hellhound, had curled herself together as best as she could in the hot water. And he had thrown the soap in the water and had left with a 'see that you're clean' spat at her.

But really – how had he expected to wash her anyway? He had not only never done it before – wash someone else that is – but also, he had never even though about it.

True, he hadn't even thought about ever having to take care of the girl by himself – he had, of course, accepted the fatherhood and he had paid a not so small amount of money to her mother but to have the girl living with him? No, he had not expected that. And if he had known, he would have called the muggle DNA-test (he had read up on it – utter rot) the rubbish that it was – would have challenged it, would not have paid, and would have been out on this entire thing. But being as it was – he had accepted it. He had signed papers, was registered in the muggle papers as the child's father and since her mother had not have any other relatives (or those could not be found) – she was his now.

And an orphanage? No. Even though he did not know if she was a witch or not, orphanages were evil. Orphanages were where they bred dark wizards. In his opinion. And he did not want this for something of his blood.

Still – she had not talked for the rest of the day. She hadn't eaten much either but at least she was clean and she had even, somehow, managed to wash her hair.

He snorted in his bed – late that night – and stopped wondering why she was so self-sufficient. He had not offered any help in any way. She had to be. She had to do things on her own.

Severus Snape sighed and leaned back into his pillow, thinking.

He did not know much, almost nothing, about her life before that week had started. He, of course, knew who her mother was, knew about her work, knew about the life she had led, but truly, the money he made Gringotts transfer to her account every month should have been enough for even her and the girl. He didn't know how much time she had spent with the child – how much care she got but the Muggle at the office had said that she had been with an acquaintance (female) of her mother and they had not been able to locate any of her things. He had transfigured a pair of his robes – but they had been a little too small and he wasn't sure how well his sizing charms worked. Wandwaving. He would have to take her to Madame Irving down the Alley, buy her a few clothes. Something decent to wear when she insisted on sitting in his shop all day long, staring into nothingness.

A stuffed animal, and that had been all it had taken to make her eyes shine happily and gratefully – and, of course she held on tightly to it the rest of the day – pressed against her chest, one head of the hellhound against the left side of her neck – the two others against the right side. And she had smiled up at him – had said her thank you this way.

It had been – so strange to see her smile.

Especially since he knew that his smile was similar. Or had been. He couldn't remember what it looked like exactly.

He noxed all the lights and pulled the covers almost over his head.

Being a father was – confusing.

xx

"What did she say?" Jonathan Granger asked his wife who, by now, sat at her mirror, brushing out her unruly curls.

"Not much," Judith sighed. "She feels guilty, naturally and sad. Doesn't know yet what to do."

"Did you tell her she can stay as long as she wants to?" he asked, closing the last button on his blue-and-white-striped pyjamas and got into bed, waiting for his wife as he did every night – as he had done every night for the last 34 years. Well – almost anyway.

"Of course I did," she looked at him through the mirror – and send him an admonishing glare. "But you know Hermione. She will probably be out and about looking for a flat by tomorrow."

"Don't let her," he shook his head. "It's too fresh and Hugo and Rosie will be even more confused."

"According to Hermione, Rose knows they're getting a divorce."

"That fast?" he asked, pulling a book from his bedside cabinet on his lap but didn't open it yet. "Aren't there rules about getting a divorce?"

Judith shrugged. "You know that many things are different when it comes to witches and wizards."

He sighed. "Of course I do. But divorces, marriages? There should be a time between deciding to separate and actual divorce."

She shrugged again. "I don't know if there is. She only said that she will send an owl in the morning."

"Poor girl," he muttered and opened the book. A heavy tome – and quite boring. The right read to go to sleep to. Especially after a taxing day like this.

Judith chuckled and pulled off her robe – putting it carefully at the foot of the bed. "She's not your little girl any more, John," she said gently and got into bed as well. "She's over thirty. She has two children."

"What do we do?" he changed the topic. "Do we have a plan?"

"I don't honestly know. I want her to feel better but those things take time."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "You should know."

"Yes, took me years to get over a certain brown-haired, brown-eyed, tall, handsome student at University."

He chuckled and leant over to kiss her cheek. "Thank God you never had to."

xx

Hermione watched her children sleep. Really, she was bone-tired but probably beyond sleeping – too tired to sleep, too tired to get some serious work done, to look for flats, to probably even find another job. Working at the Ministry? Well, she had, sometimes, worked together quite closely with Aurors, even though her work was strictly theoretical. She did research, she worked on cases after they had been brought in by Aurors. And direct contact? Rare – but happening.

And the thought alone to eventually have to question Ron about one thing or another gave her the shivers. She didn't want that. A clean cut. To being able to one day – eventually – getting along with him again. And of course he would see his children. Only – he had made it clear, right from the start, when she had told him that she wanted to go, wanted to separate, a divorce, that he could not possibly take them. Too much time spent in the field – but he'd like at least every other weekend, if not every single one. Depending on his schedule. And she, no she did not mind at all. Just because she didn't love him any more did not mean that they shouldn't. Or that they would have to suffer even more.

She sighed softly and snuggled deeply into the chair her parents had put into the guest room – where the children usually slept in. She had breastfed both Hugo and Rose in that chair – and she had watched them going to sleep there. Sometimes.

Ron had preferred the Burrow – he had once admitted that he was sometimes rather uncomfortable with the Muggle-things that were so normal to her – and obviously her parents and he only rarely went with her to her parents. Only on birthdays and such.

"Mummy?" Hugo was standing before her, his little arms stretched towards her.

"Oh Hugo," she smiled and picked him up and settled him on her lap, accioing a blanket to cover them both.

"Why's daddy never come with us here?" he asked suddenly and snuggled to her. She tightened her hold on him – holding him to her, feeling that little body breathing evenly.

"Daddy's busy at work," she explained and he seemed to accept that fact, nodded and buried his face in her breast.

She smiled – if all failed – she still had those wonderful, lovely children.

xx

He sat bolt upright. She was screaming. Or crying. Or both.

How could he have been so stupid to think that she was getting through this with only silence and a smile when she got her stuffed hellhound?

A moment later, it stopped – mid-scream and he knew, in that moment he knew that she was a witch. Silencing Charms on himself had been a speciality of his in his own childhood. Anything not to provoke his father when he had stumbled home in a stupor. Anything. And putting up those Silencing Charms had been simple – after a while.

He wasn't sure – once again – what to do. There was nothing he could fall back on. He couldn't remember what his mother had done (and since he didn't want to be like his father, he would certainly not do as he had done – all those years ago) in those situations. Maybe nothing. Or maybe she had consoled him. Or maybe he had been quicker with the Silencing Charms and she had not heard him.

Still – he could not let her scream in agony? Fear? Pain? When he knew exactly that she did. He would just sit with her until she had fallen asleep. Cancel the Charm, maybe. Even if it was loud.

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sighed – and froze.

xx

Bad dream. She couldn't remember. A room full of shelves and those weird things that sir always stored in them and her mother came towards her and suddenly send her away.

And told her that she would live with her father now. And call him father. Otherwise she would have to go live with Madame Sylvie again and she did not want that. And then Madame Sylvie and Mummy came towards her and pointed and the shelves fell onto the chair she was sitting on and she screamed and then she screamed some more – she didn't want to go back to Madame Sylvie and Mummy and then sir came with the stick and she lay half under the shelf and he came and she still screamed and her leg hurt somehow and then he wriggled that stick in his hand and picked her up and gave her the cuddly animal and she hugged it and sir and she knew that she could stop screaming now somehow and make sir – father – not wake up – and suddenly, she stopped but her mouth was still wide open but at least Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood (he had said the word earlier) were there and her throat hurt now.

And suddenly – she woke up and she could feel that she was breathing very hard and had difficulty, but she did not hear herself. But she wanted to.

Then she could.

But the room was dark and there were shelves and she did not dare to look under her bed – because there might be Madame Sylvie underneath it or maybe that woman who came every morning and was so smelly and sir – father – always just made the little bottle fly towards her because he probably thought that she smelled too and was dangerous and scary and as quickly as she could, she ran from the room, the dog pressed to her chest.

Sirfather had shown her his room when she had arrived and his door was open a bit.

Madame Sylvie could not get to her when she was with Sirfather. He had always made sure that she was okay and that she could bathe and had a bed (even though Madame Sylvie was under it now) and had given her the dog. Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood.

She pushed the door open – quickly and saw him sitting there. And he looked at her. But not with that scary expression. But differently. Somehow.

She just ran to him. Just did. He had picked her up. Had let her wrap herself around himself and had not pushed her away, had not looked at her weirdly. Had held her. And had given her the cuddly.

Somehow, she didn't know how, maybe she had such a stick as well, somehow, in her finger, she landed on his lap and in his arms and pressed herself against him.

And Ophelia knew that Madame Sylvie and those staring people, those smelly people, and the people in the weird clothes could not get to her. Sirfather would protect her.

She was a witch. And a remarkable one at that. Making herself fly into him from such a distance was a feat – and only manageable when in great fear.

"Ophelia scared," she whispered into his chest, clung to him and that – that felt even odder than her smile.

xx


	4. Chapter 4

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

The moment Severus Snape woke up, he knew something was different and only when he looked up from where he had slept so deeply, he knew what it was.

Ophelia, curled around her stuffed hellhound – her head resting against the side of his stomach, sideways in his bed. In his bed.

She had flown into his arms, on his lap, had pressed her face – and the animal – against him and had cried, sobbed, breathing hitched and it had taken a long time, a very long time, until it had evened out, until she had stopped crying and whispering to him – something about shelves and a Madame Sylvie (the woman, he supposed where the youth office had found her) and sticks that rescued her. And about him. Something about him carrying her.

It was on instinct, really, that he had held her as well, sort of. He just made sure that she did not slide off his lap – and she was so tiny that he could have wrapped his arms twice around her. Or three times, probably. As soon as he had felt her going limp – asleep – he had slowly stood up. Wanted to bring her back into her room, back to her bed. Back into the room he hadn't used before and the bed that had once been a plate.

"No," she had said in her sleep and had clung to him and had made soft mewling noises, little complaints that subsided as soon as he sat down again. He had looked at her – at the little pale girl sitting there, sleeping, her lips a little parted, streaks of dried tears on her cheeks and after a few minutes, her hold on him loosened and he, once more, tried to get up.

Again, clinging tighter, mewling and Severus had known that he stood no chance of ever bringing her back to her own bed. She seemed, as impossible as that might sound, to sense when he was holding her and when he tried to carry her.

No – he didn't know how to handle it. A little girl, very small, very skinny, very tiny, on his lap, her arms and legs wrapped around him as far as they would go and the right side of her face resting against his lower chest. He would have to tell her to sit straighter – though – well, she was sleeping, and slouching was probably alright as long as she didn't do it on purpose.

He had grown tired as well and twice more, had tried to carry her – but she wouldn't let go – and since he needed his sleep as well – he had carefully manoeuvred himself onto the mattress – and she, Ophelia – had been half laying on him, half on his bed, her head on his chest, her stuffed animal wedged between her stomach and his and one of the muzzles had painfully poked into him and he had to move that bloody animal a little – causing her to whine again in her sleep.

Now – a bit more awake, he still looked down at her, her hair in her face, covering her eyes, probably tickling her nose and the hellhound gripped tightly.

If he knew one thing for sure – it was that she was afraid of something. Screaming and crying that way in the middle of the night – someone whose life had been nice and kind didn't do that.

Severus Snape did not know how to make her life better probably – or how to make her more comfortable. He wasn't sure he even could.

Maybe – maybe he would have to find a foster family for her. Have her grow up with someone who had more experience.

But that would be shirking his duty, wouldn't it?

Yes – he would not give her to someone else. She was no goods to be traded, to be put away, to be – just brushed off. He had fathered her – not that he had known about it (and he strongly suspected that Ophelia's mother had just – picked him because she had known he had money and he had been – careless for once) and he would not, not now, now that she seemed to begin to trust him, slept so peacefully in his bed. She was his responsibility – and she would remain so until she was grown up. Until she could go out into the world on her own.

He knew he could never be a good father – or someone who cuddled and loved much – but from what he knew, or suspected, he could give her a steady home. And of course, he could prepare her for her living as a witch – something which her mother could have never done (because she – frankly – had not known he was a wizard).

Suddenly, he found himself carefully brushing the lank strands of hair out of her face and quickly pulled back when – she opened her eyes slowly and blinked at him.

And smiled. "Hullo Sirfather," she said sleepily and blinked again.

Sirfather? A new word. Containing both. "Good morning," he replied after a moment, startled. It was the first time – the very first time, she had not shrunk back in the morning, had not looked like a scared doe when she saw him. No – she smiled. And had her own name for him.

As he had renamed her. And she had used it the night before. Had called herself Ophelia – even though he knew that her mother had called her Fiffi. Like a dog. He could not possibly call her Fiffi. Idiotic name. She was his. A descendent of the Princes. A Snape – a Prince. And neither one of them could be called Fiffi.

"We will go buy some clothes for you today," he stated and somehow, found himself unable to get up – found himself unable not to look at her. She had stopped smiling and had looked – puzzled.

"Didn't your mother buy you clothes?" he asked – realisation dawning on him.

She shook her head. "Bringed clothes."

"Brought, girl," he said sharply.

"Brought clothes," she repeated.

"No new ones?"

She shook her head again and her smile had completely vanished – as if she thought she had done something wrong. And maybe, maybe she thought so, since he was – less than amused about this and his face probably showed this.

Again a mistake. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at her mother.

750 Pounds every month. That should have been quite enough to buy new clothes for the girl. More than enough. And more than enough to buy enough food.

"Get up, Ophelia," he said suddenly and jerked up himself. "We'll have breakfast and then we'll go out."

She looked scared again – and he thought that maybe, maybe, she was afraid, very afraid of going out. And he could not mind that. It would be better in Knockturn Alley – definitely – but there would still be glances and looks and he wasn't sure how much she understood, could understand of their world.

He had not, yet, told her much, since, well, she was 4 and a half and how much would she understand? She knew he was using a wand, she had seen it every day, she saw him selling potions, saw him making them, had seen him shrinking robes and filling the tub full of hot water. She had seen the magical stuffed creatures.

But she was scared – and he hoped that in a few weeks time, she would just accept this as normal – without much explanation. He would wait a bit.

"Yes, sir," she said and scrambled from the bed and he groaned inwardly. Back to sir. Obviously. He would have to do something. He did not like the sir – had to call his own father sir more often than he wanted to. When he had wanted to call him worse names.

He needed to find books – or something on child raising. Something that explained, clear and concise what to do. Switch's and Marino for the books. Madame Irving's for the clothes. And Squiffy Mary Kelly would probably be waiting in front of the apothecary already.

"Ophelia?" he said, trying to keep his voice gentle.

She just looked at him from behind the curtain of dark hair and said nothing.

"And we'll get you a few books with pictures," he said impulsively. "Can you get dressed yourself?"

She nodded and with a last, questioning look, ran from his bedroom.

xx

A book with pictures? Like the book full of fairy tales? She hadn't been able to take it with her – had left it at home with Mummy and then the woman who had picked her up from Madame Sylvie had not gone back with her to get it. Maybe – maybe sir was nice enough to buy her another fairy tale book. He even bought her clothes. New clothes. Maybe something like the nice black coat he had given her when he had made it smaller with his stick. It was warm and soft and even though it was a bit tight, it was the best thing she had.

Or maybe a pair of woollen tights. Then her legs wouldn't be so cold all the time in the thin trousers. She could wear them underneath – or maybe a dress. And a skirt. And – and – and. No, he would pick.

Everything was better than that idiotic jumper she wore now. And the underpants she had that were too big. Everything was better.

She ran into her room (her room!) and as fast as she could, wanted to dress – when her glimpse fell on her bed. There was light in the room now but still a weird shadow underneath the bed.

No, Madame Sylvie could not be there. No, definitely not. She couldn't. She stared at the bed, frowning, biting her lip, clenching her jaw.

No – she would simply check. Sirfather would come when she yelled. He had even already sat on his bed the night before and had waited for her there. He would come when Madame Sylvie was really under the bed and would come rescue her again. He would.

She breathed deeply and fell on her knees. It was dark down there but – no, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. She breathed deeply. Nothing. Empty. And Madame Sylvie could not make herself invisible. Could she?

Even if – she would have to hear her breathing. She definitely couldn't possibly stop breathing and make herself invisible at the same time so Ophelia held her breath and listened very hard but all she could hear was Sirfather in the kitchen.

Oh – he would make porridge again. And she liked the way he did. With salt. It was better than that sweet stuff Mummy or Madame Sylvie had made. Salted porridge. She smiled and scrambled up – she would dress in record time.

xx

He followed her – quietly – into her room, saw her staring at her bed and stiffening. Now he knew for sure. She was afraid that something might be under her bed – like he had. Deathly afraid of a boggart since he had once seen one with his mother being somewhere he didn't remember. And that boggart had turned into father using Mum as a punching bag. He had checked every night – for two months – if there was one underneath it.

There never was.

She – he smirked – she was his daughter. Her little hands in fists, she dropped to her knees, pushed her little bottom up and looked underneath the bed – quite thoroughly. In every corner and he knew she was alright.

He smirked again and went into the kitchen. Leaving the stirring of the porridge too long without supervision – that would turn disastrous. The last time he had – he had spent hours cleaning the damn kitchen. And she would be fine. She had overcome her fear, had looked, had searched and she would come back into the kitchen – and he knew that she was afraid of whatever she thought was under her bed.

And he found, he did not mind her in his bed. It was big enough and she was small. And his daughter. His daughter should be allowed to come into his bedroom when she was afraid of something.

Right – he would make a list. Would begin to list what his parents had done – and would make the exact opposite.

His daughter – Ophelia – would not grow up as he had. She would not. She would be allowed to be weak. She would be allowed to cry. And she would be allowed to hug him. Even though he wasn't sure whether he was comfortable with it. She would be allowed to turn to him. No matter what.

She would get decent clothes. She would get toys. She would – he needed a Pensieve. Needed to retrieve the memories of his childhood and needed to make sure that she was better off than he had been. Even if he could not give her love.

xx

She liked the smell in the mornings before they went down to the weird shop. Sirfather had said it was an athocepary – or something. That smelled interesting as well – but not as nice, as warm, as it did in the mornings. Pumpkin juice for her (she had never had it before he had come for her) and coffee for him. She knew coffee. Mummy had drunk coffee as well. But this smelled better since it somehow mingled with the porridge and she could bathe in that smell.

She stumbled into the kitchen (trousers were too long) and climbed up the chair the way he liked it in the morning.

She wasn't sure whether he would like that she had brought Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood with her – probably not – but the dog fit just so nicely on her lap and he could just sit there and peek under the table and look if there was something as well. So Madame Sylvie couldn't somehow sneak up on her when Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood looked. This dog had three heads – and could bite her with his three mouths.

Simple.

Ophelia smiled at Sirfather when he put a bowl of porridge and the glass in front of her. He was there as well. Him and Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood would not make her have to go back.

"I'd like you to wear skirts," he said suddenly when he sat down with her on the table.

That alone – really – Mummy hadn't done that. She had given her breakfast and had then taken her cup of coffee somewhere. Or had sat down quickly for a – cigarette – and had then gone into the bathroom. Ophelia really disliked cigarettes. When Mummy smoked them, she always had to cough. And the smoke smelled really horrible. And had made her cough even more.

"It is customary here that girls wear skirts," he continued and she closed her eyes for a moment. Skirts! No trousers to stumble over because they were too long but beautiful skirts.

"Woollen tights?" she asked shyly and even though he had that little line on his forehead, he nodded and Ophelia was as happy as any girl in the world could be.

Probably – probably he would even buy her black ones. He liked black – she thought – he always wore it – and she liked black as well. And black woollen tights were wonderful!

She smiled broadly and spooned her breakfast, dangling her legs – glad that she had a Sirfather now. A Sirfather who had hugged her all through the night and who was taking care of her and bought her clothes and woollen tights. And skirts. And a book!

She didn't think about motives, she only knew that she was extraordinarily happy – despite the nightmare (or maybe because, because without the nightmare, she wouldn't have gone to sleep in his bed and that had been wonderful) and carefully slipped down from her seat, placed the hellhound on her chair and ran around the table and hugged her Sirfather's legs, looked up and beamed.

"Thank you," she said softly and hugged his legs tighter.

xx

_**Thank you!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx  
**_

"Morning, Mum," Hermione smiled and pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself – the morning was cold, even inside – she sat down on the kitchen table.

"Morning, darling. Slept well?"

She shook her head. "Not really, no. Where's Dad? And the kids?"

Judith Granger chuckled. "Shopping."

"Shopping?" she grinned. "Dad?"

Her mother shrugged, still grinning and poured her a cup of tea. "And what are your plans today?"

"I actually wanted to go to Diagon Alley. I need to pick up some books fro..."

"Are you sure?"

Hermione shrugged. "I need them for work and the sooner I get them, the sooner I can start looking through them, and the sooner I'll get my mind off the entire – thing."

"That's my girl," she grinned. "What's the thing you're working on?"

"Same old, same old. Lucius Malfoy and his bloody purebloodedness. He is barely out of Azkaban and tries to get a sort of compensation and apparently is working on trying to pass a law which would cause all Muggle-borns working in the Ministry to have to pass certain tests on their abilities. It's ridiculous but what can you do?"

"And what kind of books do you need for that?" she asked, curiously. Her mum always tried to make sure she knew that they were both interested in what she was doing, what she was working on, what was going on in the Wizarding World.

"There's a book I ordered about ancient pureblood-laws and I think he might want to use that as a reference."

"Know thy enemy," Judith smiled. "Would you mind...no."

"Yes, yes, Mum!" Hermione's eyes widened and she smiled. "Yes, I want you to come with me."

"I haven't been there in years and I thought that I might like to, you know, see how it looks like now after the war. But if you want to go alone...?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, Mum, I want you to come with me. I just thought you might not be interested to watch me browsing through a book store."

Judith Granger laughed and sat down, taking her hand. "I have done that for almost thirty years – before that, you were not browsing but crawling and pulled books out at random. I think your father was always more embarrassed than I was," she mused fondly.

Hermione chuckled. "It does me some good, I think," she said softly, pensively, "to stay here."

"I hope so."

xx

Ophelia beamed. She really did and she almost ran down the stairs to the shop. She would not let him walk past her, she would not let him pass her, she ran down, the bloody stuffed three-headed dog in her hand, one of the heads bumping on the stairs (and yes, he knew that she had named every single one of them – though the reason why was, for him, incomprehensible – Fluffy – Cabby – Wormwood. It was probably Wormwood that was right now having his head banged against the heavy wood of the stairs) and he felt uneasy – sort of. The trousers she wore were too long and he knew she would trip at any moment. Not that he didn't know how to use simple Healing Charms, he did, but he wasn't sure how well she would take to it – having his wand pointed at her, the magic seeping through her, tingling, tickling, cold and warm and he did not want to deal with a crying girl.

Not again.

The nightmares would return anyway and that was quite enough.

"Woman again," she said suddenly, and pointed at the door. She had made it down the stairs – unhurt.

He growled but realised with a weird feeling in his stomach, that she had remembered Squiffy Mary Kelly. Who needed her Sober Up Potion every morning – only to be drunk a few hours later again. Ophelia noticed. And Squiffy Mary Kelly was only one of the very – colourful – characters coming into the apothecary every day, and she had witnessed every single one of them. Every single man who needed a potion against one of those diseases that a betrothed should not know about, every single unwed young – or not – woman – who needed something to make sure she would not be a young – or not – mother. Or, the other way round – to make sure she would be a mother – at a certain time. Old people who did not want to die – old people who did. Young ones that did.

And no – he did not feel guilty, he felt no moral dilemma – nothing. He made the potions, yes, and he sold them but they asked for them, they wanted them, they took them. He wasn't tipping anything in anyone's throat. He wasn't forcing anyone to do anything. Nothing. It was their own problem – and he merely made money with the fact that, while people distrusted him personally, they thought him shady – not quite light, not quite dark – they knew that his potions were brewed to perfection, could be taken without problems and no questions would be asked.

Still – they did not know that he had an extraordinary memory. And one day – one day – it would serve him.

"Yes," he replied finally and could sidestep her – between Ophelia and the door. "That is that smelly, disgusting woman, girl. But she will pay today and that will be at least a book for you," he growled and with a flick of his wand, the door opened a little and he pushed the girl – subconsciously – behind the counter.

"Well?" he sneered as he looked at Squiffy Mary.

"I've got ye 30," she slurred.

"That leaves 50 to pay still," he replied coldly, "but better than nothing." He picked up a vial with Sober Up and levitated it – just out of her reach – and stepped a little closer. "And?"

The drunk woman rummaged in the pockets of her robes and pulled a pouch out and stepped forward to drop it in his hands. He weighed it suspiciously in her hand, and nodded sharply. "Go," he drawled and the vial sailed into her shaking hands. She downed it quickly.

"Thank you, Master Snape. Thank you."

"Go!" he said again and closed the door – and warded it. When he turned around, he knew that his features – softened.

The girl had remained behind the counter – where he had more or less gently pushed her – but instead of cowering, or sitting in her chair, she was apparently standing on her tiptoes, watching his interaction with the addicted woman with the greatest of interest.

"Ophelia," he said, his voice soft, low and threatening – and he noticed immediately that it had been too much – too much and her face fell and she hid behind the counter.

Books on raising children. At least a stack.

xx

"Come," he said and it sounded like the voice that he had used before – earlier – gentle and kind and she knew this was the Sirfather-Voice. The other was the sir-voice. One was nice – the other not. When he used the latter one, she had done something wrong.

And yes, she had. He had put her gentle behind the counter because he wanted to protect her – and she had peeked, had been too curious. Mummy had always said she was too curious for her own good. And one day, she would get the results of the curiosity. What that meant, Ophelia didn't know but Sirfather was angry because she was curious when he had only wanted to make sure she kept out of harm's way.

She sighed softly and risked a glance up at him – but his face was quite normal again. And normal meant the little line between his eyebrows, the straight line of his lips, the thin lips, like her own lips, and his eyes open and seeing everything and she knew he wasn't angry.

So far, she knew that he made three faces:

One: the line between his eyebrows was quite deep, and them – the eyebrows – a little closer together, his mouth as if he had just eaten something that did not taste good. That face meant he was angry. He had looked that way when he had picked her up, for instance. And when he spoke with the people who came into the athocepary.

Two: the normal face. Like he had now. That meant everything was alright.

Three: no lines, the mouth a bit open and his eyes shining. That meant he was pleased or content. He had looked that way briefly that morning.

And Ophelia was curious – curious to see if there were more faces. Maybe Sirfather could even smile.

xx

Judith Granger looked around in utter astonishment – Diagon Alley had changed since she had last accompanied her daughter there – sometime around her second or third year but it shone only brighter, and there seemed to be more shops open now and those she remembered, the quidditch-thing, the book store, where they had bought Hermione's wand, seemed bigger and brighter as well.

"Flourish and Blott's is this way, Mum," Hermione smiled and took her mother's arm.

"I know but what's that there?" she asked, pointing at one shop especially colourful and sparkly.

"George Weasley's," Hermione said darkly. "Mum, I think I'd rather not..."

"Of course not," she shook her head. "And it's a joke shop, isn't it? Well, I'd rather not think that Rose and Hugo get those. Your father would die of shock."

Hermione seemed grateful and pulled her away with her. "It's not only that, I just, I mean, I don't know how they're reacting and I'd rather not be somehow, well, I don't know. It'd be just weird."

Judith rolled her eyes and let herself drag along. Her daughter always moved faster when she was in the vicinity of books. Always. She had a nose for it. Whenever she was close to a library, a store, anything – she moved faster and knew where to go. Instinctively. But she had always liked the Wizarding stores – no matter which.

"Oh Mum, do you mind if we go to Luculent later?"

"What's that?"

"The apothecary. I need some Pepper Up Potion for the children. With the weather's getting cold, I think it might be good to be prepared."

She smiled at her girl. "I came here to spend some time with you. And I even thought we might have some lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, was it?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Your father knows about it, I wrote a note and he's perfectly capable of warming up some noodle soup for Rose and Hugo. I take it mobile phones still do not work here?"

"No, Mum, you're..."

"Yes," she said softly and found herself with an armful of Hermione – quite unlike her – especially in public, "it's alright, darling. Now go get those books."

xx

Her eyes were the biggest he had ever seen when they entered Switch's and Marino – saucers at the sight of shelves full of books, and still, she pressed herself against his thigh, and held the hellhound to her. It was clear that Ophelia disliked people. Or many people at once.

And he would probably feel the same way too – if he'd be that tiny and had to look up for everything. And people looking down at him.

He put his sneering face on and bent down. This time – she did not shrink away, she did not flinch, she just looked at him, with a trust in her young eyes he had not seen in anyone's before – and had lifted her in his arms quickly.

He was protecting his daughter and he saw absolutely no reason why he should not show this. This did not mean cuddling, did not mean that he carried her around – it only meant that he did not want his heir (or rather heiress) trampled on. And he would make sure everyone knew it.

The darkest scowl, the meanest sneer and he was off into the small children's section (the one at Flourish and Blott's was about seven times as big), he held her up and let her look. And look some more. And some more.

Suddenly, she turned her head towards his and looked at him questioningly.

Alright – so getting something was not in her nature either – she wasn't used to it. And he remembered a little boy – a scared little boy who was not used to getting things either, who could be made happy by a used book – anything.

He would have to use a different tactic, he knew – and pulled a random book from the shelf. It was a simple book but a staple in every Wizarding nursery. _The Faerie Book of Faerieland_.

"Do you like that?" he asked his daughter quietly and she nodded immediately.

"Good," he replied and placed a levitating charm on it – making it follow them.

She apparently was fascinated by that alone – and he picked two more out. _Beedle the Bard_ – idiotic as it was – and _More Faerietales from Faerieland_. Three were enough. He didn't want to spoil Ophelia – but maybe, she could learn to read from those books as well. Maybe, he would have to read to her.

And somehow, that prospect didn't sound so appalling.

And her face, seeing two more books following them was priceless. Open, innocent and full of joy.

xx

"What do you mean, you're out of Pepper Up Potion?" Hermione asked agitatedly. "What about the ingredients? I can brew it myself."

"Sorry, ma'am," the apothecary shook his head. "Nothing to be done. There was a bout of flu in Wales and all our supplies have gone there."

"And?"

"It cannot guarantee another shipment for the next three weeks," he shrugged. "I am sorry."

Hermione huffed and pulled her mother out of the store.

"Do you need it desperately?" her mother asked once outside.

"Yes. Hugo doesn't react at all to muggle medicine and he gets a cold quickly. Pepper Up works nicely and if I could get the ingr..."

"Ingredients?" her mother completed the word.

"Yes, ingredients," she shook her head and sighed. "We have to go to Knockturn Alley."

"Knock...but didn't you always say that you didn't really like to go there?"

Yes – yes, of course she had and she did not. And no respectable person ever ventured there – but she had been curious for a while now, actually. She knew Snape owned an apothecary there. And she had really wanted to see it – had wanted to for quite some time but – there would have been talk if she had been seen going there.

Now, with her mother – and the respectable apothecary Luculent out of potion and ingredients for her son's upcoming cold – she had the perfect excuse. Nobody could talk about her then. Nobody.

She smirked inwardly. "I need it and besides – it's not that bad."

xx

Ophelia was happy.

She had observed her father closely, standing next to him, when he had ordered the woman in the shop around. The best shop in the world, she thought. There were those lovely coats (or cloaks? Sirfather called them robes or something) hanging from thin air and he had told the woman to pack three. Two in normal black – only black – and one a bit shinier, with something almost furry on the edges. She knew that she would never take it off. Never.

Then, there were suddenly skirts and dresses and Sirfather had just pointed at three or four different ones, black and grey and one in dark blue and then, suddenly, blouses and jumpers and he pointed as well.

"Self-sizing?" he asked – and this was the sir-voice – that he always used when he spoke to other people. She had, oddly, never heard him use the Sirfather-Voice when he spoke to someone else.

"Yes, sir," that woman nodded her head and he put the normal voice on.

"Shoes."

Suddenly, there were a lot and a lot of different shoes in front of her and of Sirfather and he pointed again – though – there was one pair. They were – black – and had shiny, silver buckles. She looked a little closer and saw that there were little snakes on the buckles. Snakes were nice. She thought. They were pretty and hissed so nicely.

Ophelia knew that she wasn't the most courageous, brave girl in the world – on the contrary. If she had been brave, she would have said that she did not like Madame Sylvie and the men that were sometimes there but she never had. Or she would have told Mummy that she did not like sugared porridge. She would have slept in her own bed – despite the fact that there might have been Madame Sylvie under the bed.

No, she wasn't brave but those shoes – they were – like a dream and she carefully tugged on her Sirfather's sleeve.

"Yes?" he looked down almost immediately and she had to bite her lip. She couldn't ask for those shoes. No. "Is there a pair you like?"

She bit her lip further and he groaned – and bent down. "Which one?"

"That one," she said voicelessly and pointed at the beautiful black shoes with the shiny silver buckles with the snakes on them.

"You have a little Slytherin there already, sir," the woman said in a weird voice and Sirfather sneered.

"Obviously. Them too. And six pairs of black, thick woollen tights. As well as the usual underwear for girls."

She looked up at him and she could not stop her smile and she could not help herself and hugged his legs again and whispered many thank yous into his trouser leg when she suddenly felt his two strong arms lifting her up. He picked her up again!

Shoes and skirts and dresses and robes and woollen tights and he picked her up.

She smiled at him and, because he, for only a short moment wore the third face, the content, happy face, she bent over quickly and kissed his cheek. It felt warm and smelled good and she never wanted to stand on her own feet again if he would always carry her. And she knew that she never ever ever wanted to leave her Sirfather. Always and forever wanted to stay with him.

Because – he was nice, he was kind, and he protected her and he was there and he smelled good and his cheek was warm and he did not push her away when she rested her own cheek against his and he had just bought her those pretty shoes and six pairs of woollen tights.

xx

_**Thank you!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx  
**_

Hermione huffed – loudly. Once, once, she had gone into Knockturn Alley – once she had actually decided to go and look at Snape's apothecary and then there's a sign on the door. Closed. Closed.

"Argh," she said to her mother who looked a little – a tiny bit out of place.

True, Hermione wore Muggle clothes as well, normal jeans, a normal top and a coat but the people bustling past them – were, not even close to Muggles. They wore mismatched, dirty, robes and some wore shoes, others didn't – and she had to admit that she knew some of them. From work. She had her wand gripped inside of her sleeve and she knew how to duel. How to fight.

"Hermione, are you sure we should be here?" her mother asked, standing closely to her, when a woman, a bit tipsy, probably, walked past them.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. I'm sure we could get the ingredients here but I don't know when Snape will open."

"Snape?" Judith Granger asked suddenly. "_The _Snape?"

Hermione nodded. "Severus Snape, yes. He owns this place."

"They let him sell potions? But didn't you say that most of the people here disliked and distrusted him? That nobody really cared that he had done this because of..."

"Shh, Mum," Hermione interrupted her quickly. "Even I'm not supposed to know why he actually turned spy. Harry was quite adamant about that."

"But it's so – heart wrenching. Doing this all because, well, you know why. It gives me the shivers, only thinking about it – my God, darling, to do all of this because of – you know what – love," she hissed the last word. "I have never met such a man. To feel that way for such a long time. Didn't you say over twenty years? I love your father and I know that he loves me but this is a whole new dimension of love."

"Yes," Hermione hissed. "Obsessive and crazy."

Judith shook her head, smiling gently. "Steady and romantic. I envy the woman he has now. If he has one. That man is loyal and will stand by you no matter what. He will not let you go lightly."

Hermione chuckled. "You don't know Snape, Mum. I doubt he has someone. He's difficult and a git. And that wasn't love. That was obsession and weird. Nothing that I wish on any woman."

"Well, I don't know him but I bet he's capable of love."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Nope."

"Is that him?" she pointed at a black clad figure.

"No. It can't be. There's a...child with him."

Judith Granger merely raised her eyebrows and smirked.

xx

The girl skipped. She had slipped her hand in his and had smiled and now skipped by his side. Jumped. Bounced. In her new robes, new shoes, new skirt, new black woollen tights, new jumper. She looked a little like a mini-version of him now and he wasn't sure whether that was good. A chipper, happy, bouncing, skipping girly version of himself.

She had thanked him more often than he could count and had smiled ever since they had left Madame Irving's and that had been the same moment she had reached up and he had felt her cold fingers slipping into his hand.

Severus Snape disliked cold hands. He kept his warm – if it was cold outside, he wore gloves – if they grew cold without reason – Warming Charm. And her fingers, her hands, were cold. And he had forgotten to buy her a pair of gloves. He sighed softly and she looked up at him questioningly – and when he tightened his hold on her fingers, just to erase the less than comfortable feeling of her clammy, cold fingers in his warm palm, she looked up, smiled and had begun to skip and bounce and jump and it was – less than comfortable – but if he reprimanded her now, she would be scared again and would probably run off – in the middle of Knockturn Alley. And this was even less appealing than her bouncing.

Besides – being so happy because of three books and a few clothes? The bare necessities? Happy because of woollen tights. Ridiculous.

And yet, so realistic. What would he had given for new clothes back then? Wouldn't he had been more than happy and just as bouncy? Probably.

He was shocked to discover so many parallels between them – one after the other and he had bought some books on the subject – and would order a Pensieve. Even if it would put a dent into his savings. It might be worth to put some memories in there. Some that he didn't want to see every day. Even if it was expensive – and it wasn't for her well-being only. But also for his own.

She hummed beside him and bounced and smiled and he knew that he had made one girl very happy. It was an odd feeling. A very odd feeling to know that he had the power.

"Sirfather back to athopecary?" she asked suddenly and he frowned a little.

"Apothecary, Ophelia."

"Apocethary. Back to apocethary?"

"Apothecary," he repeated slowly but when she just looked at him, he nodded. "Yes. You can go upstairs to your room and read."

"Upstairs?" she asked shyly and shook her head. "Chair in corner."

"You want to be in the store?" he asked – completely surprised. Shocked, almost.

She nodded – still shyly.

"Well," he said slowly, trying to conceal his surprise at realising that she actually wanted to – be with him. Spend time with him. "You can stay down then but don't talk to anyone and you know you have to be quiet."

She nodded again and this time – she smiled and seemed to bounce a little more when they rounded the corner – the corner on which his house stood. A few more steps and they would be inside, away from the less than wholesome people outside. In the apothecary, he could control to at least a certain degree who his daughter would see and vice versa.

But then – there he saw someone he had absolutely no longing to see.

xx

"That is him," Hermione gasped and Judith couldn't hide a grin.

"With a child, eh? Doesn't really look like his niece. More like his daughter," she whispered and nudged her daughter, "Not able to love?"

"That could be anything," Hermione said voicelessly and nudged back. "And I want to buy things at his shop, so you better be quiet, alright?"

Judith grinned. Certainly not. She would not be quiet, she would talk to this man. Never had the chance to thank him for helping his daughter, for saving his daughter. And she was curious.

Besides, even though she had been married for over thirty years, she still could judge very well which men were handsome – or at least interesting – in her book. And even though this man certainly did not fall into the former category – he did into the latter. And the girl bouncing beside him seemed so happy.

Not able to love – ha! Of course he was when he had a little girl at that age beaming up at her father (and of course she didn't know – but really – they looked so much alike. Same hair, same mouth, same eyes. No doubt she was his daughter).

She hid her smirk and tried her serious – I'm-sorry-but-we-have-to-do-a-root-canal-or-the-tooth-will-have-to-come-out-face.

xx

Sirfather seemed to stiffen a bit and gripped her hand tighter. It wasn't the kind hand-warming it had been before – this was almost painful and maybe – maybe – it had something to do with the two women that looked at him curiously but who were the first people she had seen since she lived with Sirfather that wore normal clothes.

She had learned from Mummy, Madame Sylvie and Sirfather to be careful with and weary of strangers. Never take candy – or in Sirfather's case – never leave his side. And she had absolutely no intention of doing so. The more time she spent with him, the more she knew what was so nice about him. He always smelled good – not only his cheek but the entire Sirfather. She couldn't say what smell it was but it almost smelled as warm, sometimes even warmer, than porridge and coffee. And warm meant a feeling like the bed she had now – that was always warmed and with the warm duvet pulled up to her nose. That was the feeling that she got now when she smelled her Sirfather. Somehow.

She smiled up at him and he wore the angry-face. But he did not even look at her but at the two women in normal clothes and Ophelia wondered whether he really knew them. And whether he disliked them.

Oh – maybe the young one was his wife – and she would be sent away now. Maybe his wife didn't know her Sirfather was her Sirfather and she had been on holiday or somewhere and Sirfather had not told her and she was – no. Why should she be his wife?

That was a stupid idea. Sirfather had no wife. Or a girlfriend.

She hoped. And held on tighter to him and pushed herself closer to his legs.

xx

He had only looked at her briefly but she felt herself catapulted back into her childhood – the years at Hogwarts when he had worn that scowl constantly.

The ability to love? No. He was less than gentle with the girl, held her hand tight and seemed to push her towards his leg as he quickly took his eyes off her and her mother and unwarded his apothecary without sparing her another glance and almost dragged the girl inside.

"Love, Mum?"

"She was clinging to him, didn't you see?" her mother rolled her eyes.

"He was dragging her."

"He wasn't. She was clinging."

"Dragging."

"Clinging. And stop arguing. I am your mother," she ended the argument with a smirk. "And go get your ingredients, it's open now."

Hermione breathed deeply and took hold of her mother's forearm and this time, dragged her along – into the apothecary.

She would – somehow – find out if this was his daughter. Or maybe his niece. Or half-sister. Or anyone.

She would buy the ingredients, and, since she was a former student, would be entitled to a few questions. Especially since she hadn't seen him since – the Shrieking Shack. Since they'd all thought he was dead. They had only found out later that he wasn't – and had, about six months later – opened the apothecary. More than ten years ago. Almost fourteen years ago – almost.

He had aged – objectively seen – well. Almost not at all. He looked almost the same he had. A little less pale and lifeless and well – dead – but no, not that much older. Not thirteen years older. Almost fourteen while she – lately – looked every bit of her now 32 years. Married for seven, a mother of two children, in the middle of a separation, a stressful job – she was entitled to have those little wrinkles around her eyes. She was entitled to a hurting back some time. Still...

And he looked younger now with – what? - 51? 52?

Now – that was unfair.

She shook her head inwardly and, with less difficulty than she thought, pulled her mother into the apothecary.

"Professor Snape, good day to you," she smiled and moved to the counter, her eyes – alternately on him – and on the girl, maybe three and a half – four – who was sitting quietly, in her robes and her legs dangling a little, a stuffed animal on her lap, her fingers playing idly with – one of the heads of the, she had to grin a little, hellhound.

The child smiled a little at her, then looked down and seemed to communicate silently with her cuddly – the same way she had done as a child – the same way her own children did sometimes.

"I am not a Professor any more, Miss Granger," he drawled – malice lacing his words.

No – he had not changed. "Or is that Missus Weasley now? Granger-Weasley? Weasley-Granger?" he continued – meanly.

"Granger will do fine," she spat back.

"Hello, I'm Hermione's mother, Judith Granger" her mother suddenly stepped forward and reached out – obviously wanting to shake his hand. "You must be Severus Snape. My daughter has told me a lot about you."

"She would," he drawled – but, to Hermione's surprise, shook her mother's hand briefly. "And I am indeed Severus Snape."

"Very pleased to meet you," she smiled, then apparently looked at the girl. "And you are?" she asked softly and Hermione could not believe it. This was unlike her mother. Or very much like her.

The girl looked questioningly at Snape – then back to her mother – then back at Snape.

"You may answer," he told her.

"I'm Ophelia," she said shyly and jumped off the chair and hid behind Snape's legs.

xx

The impertinence. Coming into his apothecary now. He had not seen Granger since – forever – and he had no intention of ever doing so again. And now she brought her mother inside. A Mother that was incredibly polite and knew her manners.

And he had to respond to that, naturally. Still – the reaction of his girl – he could understand that. Hiding behind him from curious Granger-women – not stupid. He put his hand on her shoulder (which was a bit awkward) and squeezed it. But she remained behind him after she had answered. Not her full name – but that should do.

"Your daughter?" Missus Granger asked – and smiled.

"Yes," he said coldly. "Any reasons you came in here, Miss Granger or was it mere curiosity?"

"Pepper Up," she replied just as coldly and seemed to want to see Ophelia again – her head was oddly tilted.

"The respectable apothecaries all sold out finally?" he asked with a sneer.

"Yes."

"Interesting. My price just went up," he smirked. "Two vials 27 galleons. If you take 5, I'll make a special price. Let's say 65 Galleons."

"You know that that's extortion?" she asked sharply, her eyes flashing.

"Yes. That or making business. Take it or leave it. I'm sure within the next two days, people will storm in here and pay every price."

"And the ingredients?"

He made a calculating face – and still held his daughter by the shoulder. "Well, every ingredient? Or just a few?"

"Those that I need for Pepper Up. I don't have anything at home."

"Hm – well it's difficult, since it would be completely to my disadvantage to sell the ingredients for you to make it yourself. But, since it's you – the entire bunch for about three vials – depending on how well you brew – always, of course, provided that you can brew it still, 33 Galleons."

"You're insane. And every bit the person I remember," she spat and, wanting to drag her mother along, left the shop but Missus Granger stood rooted on the spot and Hermione Granger – still impulsive, still very much the Gryffindor, had run out.

"Mister Snape, good bye," she said and smiled and proffered her hand again. "It was really nice meeting you."

"Good bye, Missus Granger."

"Any chance on a better price for the potion?" she had turned towards the door – then turned to him again.

"I'm afraid, Missus Granger, you misjudge me," he drawled and pushed Ophelia back again, after she had taken a peek.

"I don't think I do," she smiled and apparently her eyes had fallen on the girl. "Good bye, Ophelia. It's a lovely name you have."

"Good bye," she piped from behind his legs.

"I hope to see you again, Ophelia. You too, Mister Snape," she smiled and, without another word, left the store.

He was – almost impressed by her mother. She had stood her ground and he could see where Hermione Granger had inherited her courage from. Every other person would have probably either paid at first, or would have left the apothecary in a rage. Like she had done. Not Missus Granger.

He smirked and turned to his daughter. "We'll brew some Pepper Up Potion now," he told her and she looked up.

"Can I help?" she asked softly and – he found himself nodding. Just nodding his head.

xx


	7. Chapter 7

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx  
**_

It was strange – to say the least – to see her so like himself. She wore the same face he did when she concentrated. And that she did as they were brewing the Pepper Up. Well, actually, he was brewing it, she was watching him, standing on a little footstool he had conjured. Otherwise there would have been no sense in letting her watch – if she did not see what he was doing. And the counter was high and she could only peek over the top when she stood on her tiptoes. And that – over a greater amount of time – was painful. He supposed.

So she watched the cauldron, her little brow furrowed and once in a while, he spared her a glance, looked at her – even though she did not notice since she was utterly focused on the bubbling Pepper Up. And stared – with the utmost interest.

He had a daughter. That realisation hit him hard. Yes, yes, he had admitted it to himself that he had had sex with a stranger – or almost stranger – unprotected (well, he at least, had worn a spell he had created after the war – protecting him from diseases – it had, so far, worked nicely and he had no doubt it would – and Ophelia was healthy as well. The Healer in Knockturn Alley that he had gone to with her had given her a clean bill of health – even though she was too small for her age) and from that – well, union – had come a child. So far he had understood that. And he knew that the tiny thing, especially with the way she looked like, was his offspring. Had called her his daughter in his head. But apart from her appearance, he had never understood.

She was – Ophelia was – his daughter. She liked, obviously, books, brewing and had the same – strange – characteristics he had. They shared so many things.

And somehow now – he could really grasp it. His flesh and blood. His. Forever. She would remain in his life. He would have her for keeps.

Severus Snape found himself suddenly standing behind her – holding her by the upper arms and with his foot, pushing the stool right in front of the cauldron and moved closely behind her – his stomach touching her back ever so slightly and he reached around her and took his stirring rod and – gave it to her.

"Can you stir in a clockwise movement four times?" he asked and she looked over her shoulder, puzzled.

"What's clockwise?" she asked, obviously unsure of herself and shy again and he made her hold the rod – and took her little hand in his, moving it. She still had to reach up, and stand on her tiptoes to being able to stir – and with a flick of his wand in his left hand, made the stool a little taller. Made it easier for her.

She looked at him again – and smiled – when he directed her movements in the cauldron.

"That direction is clockwise," he said softly. "As if you're pushing things away from yourself."

"And the other one is when I'm taking things to myself," she said shyly. "Not clockwise."

"Yes," he nodded, "but it's not not clockwise but anticlockwise."

She nodded and then – seemed to be completely focused on stirring, slowly, and at the liquid in the cauldron.

She was his daughter. And he would be able to teach her, mould her, influence her. And he would make her the greatest Potion Mistress that country had seen in centuries. She certainly was bright enough.

xx

She stifled a happy sigh. Happy – she was so happy. He taught her stirring. Clockwise – moving hand away from body – anticlockwise – moving hand towards body. That much was in her head already and she always wanted to learn thing. Learning was nice. And this, this potion was fascinating. It had changed colours, from bright blue to a light green almost instantly when she had stirred.

She had done that! She had made the watery stuff change colours – by her stirring. She had done that! It was absolutely fascinating. Absolutely interesting. Absolutely great. Especially since her Sirfather stood behind her so closely and she could smell him and feel him on her back and his warm hand over hers until she had understood how she would have to stir.

"That's enough," he said so gentle in his Sirfather-Voice and she carefully pulled the wooden stick from the liquid and it bubbled wildly instantly. And turned a deeper shade of green.

"It changed colour again," she exclaimed before she could stop herself.

"Yes," he said so nicely and leaned a little over her shoulder. "Just the way it should be."

"And I did that," she whispered very softly with fascination and leaned back against him. His stomach was soft, and his chest was a little harder and her back was against his stomach and her head against his chest and this time she could not stifle the sigh.

This was wonderful.

Nobody had ever let her do something by herself. Everyone had always told her that she was too small and too young and too dumb and too stupid. Not Sirfather. Sirfather didn't think she was too small and too young and too dumb and too stupid.

And he had bought her books as well – and that showed that he certainly didn't think her stupid or dumb. He had let her stir. He let her still stand there, right in front of the cauldron, with the wooden stick in her hand and let her watch. And suddenly, his hands were on her arms and he almost pulled herself a little closer, though she was already leaning so closely to him and it almost felt as if he was hugging her.

She looked up and back and smiled. "I like this, Sirfather," she whispered.

"Yes, and you did that," he replied kindly and squeezed her arms.

xx

"A child, how can anyone let a child be with him?" Hermione ranted. "And who's the mother of that child? It would certainly have been in the Prophet if he had wed someone."

"Hermione, this is getting tiresome," her mother sighed and unlocked the door and let her daughter in before she stepped in herself.

"No, Mum, I mean it. You saw how he was. He wasn't kind, he was an idiot."

"He was nice to me," she shrugged. "And his daughter obviously loves him and he loves her. Did you see how she quickly hid behind him? You did that when you were that age. Hid behind your daddy and he would reach for you and hold you somehow. That was exactly what he did."

"He lives in Knockturn Alley. With a child," she argued.

"And? He took good care of her. Didn't let go of her hand until they were in his shop and she was behind the counter."

"I would never take the children there."

Judith Granger rolled her eyes. "You're prejudiced, darling. Quite simply prejudiced. You had an evil teacher in school and you'll stick to it."

"He didn't change, obviously," she threw her hands in the air. "Do you know what a vial of Pepper Up usually costs?"

"No," she shook her head.

"2 Galleons. If you get a good prize, 1 Galleon, seven Sickles, three Knuts. Not, what was it? Thirteen," she continued to rant.

"Supply and demand," Judith remarked sharply. "And you storm in there and demand, darling. You weren't nice to him either."

"Why should I be?"

"Oh, I don't know, because you haven't seen him since the day you thought he was dead and because I know that you felt guilty for a very long time that you left him there and didn't check closer if he was alive or not. I remember you sitting here, in that very room," she pointed at the kitchen, "crying because you thought he would have brain damage because you didn't help him. I remember, Hermione and it would do you good to remember that, too. He knows you were there and don't you think he's allowed a grudge?" her mother send her an admonishing glare that went well with her rational voice and argument and turned around quickly. "Think about it," she added and rushed up the stairs, leaving Hermione to walk into the kitchen by herself.

"And besides," she heard her mother again, coming down the stairs, "I only ever heard Ron really complaining about Severus Snape. You called him a hero, Harry did, as far as I can remember and it was only your husband who complained and whatnot. Called him a git. Not you. You let yourself be influenced by your husband and frankly, Hermione, I do not like that," she said calmly, then walked out again. Quickly.

No, it was not true. Yes, for the first year or so after the war, she had admired what he had done – all those years play-acting, spying, never once slipping, even killing Dumbledore on his own orders.

But then, he had seemed to embrace his dark side again – and she had learned about the apothecary – that he sold almost illegal potions to horrendous prices and dragged people into addiction. And that was – not hero-material in her opinion in any case. This was – Severus Snape at his meanest.

And so what if Ron was of the same opinion? She did not let herself be influence by anyone. Not even Ron. No one. This was her own, honest opinion.

Even if he had a daughter now, and probably a wife somewhere tucked up - or, more likely, downstairs. Probably on a leash.

But the girl – the girl had been cute. Sweet. And obviously really trusted her father. Polite. Quiet. And she did look like him. And he had – really – put a protecting hand on her shoulder. Or maybe it was a pushing, mean hand. She wasn't sure.

She would – go there again. Check on the child.

"And you better apologise," her mother yelled from upstairs, "if you ever want to look into his eyes again."

"I didn't do anything wrong. He began the meanness," she yelled back.

"What are you, Hermione? Five?"

"Maybe," she muttered, "Not even close!" she shouted.

"Then go back tomorrow or I will," Judith cried and all Hermione heard upstairs was a bit of rumbling.

She would most certainly not go back. At least not so soon. Had absolutely no intention of seeing him again and she could not imagine him wanting to see her. No, she would not.

And the good thing was – her mother had no way of getting to Knockturn Alley without a witch or wizard by her side.

xx

Judith Granger still grumbled hours later after she and her husband had gone upstairs to bed. She was mad at her daughter – a thing that well – happened sometimes. Hermione could be too stubborn sometimes and too good at heart. Didn't give anyone a lot of slack. Another reason why Judith sometimes wondered why their marriage had lasted that long.

"Stop it, Jude," Jonathan rolled around and eyed her suspiciously.

"Stop what?" she huffed.

"Your sighing and huffing and moaning. And thinking about it. You know what she's like. She'll complain for a bit and then she'll calm down and apologise for the shouting."

"This is not about the shouting," she argued. Well – they had only shouted a bit. After the children had been in bed. About stubbornness and unreasonableness and the fact that she could jolly well see Severus Snape and his daughter whenever she wanted to. It had been brief. But – clashing of tempers.

He sighed and turned the light on his side back on. "She's unbalanced at the moment and if you say that she adopted Ronald's view on this – whatshisname – then that's probably just sentimentality."

"Sentimentality? That's rubbish," she huffed again. "She sees what she wants to see and that poor man, yes, he was impolite and scowled but only after she called him Professor Snape."

"Why would that make him impolite?"

"Probably he doesn't want to be reminded of the time when he was a teacher, probably, he's just a stickler for manners. I tell you, he was perfectly nice to me. A bit short, yes, and he said that I'd misjudge him, but Hermione didn't, probably couldn't, see the way he looked at his daughter when she was looking at him when I asked for her name. It was tender. I was kind. It was that of a father looking at his daughter. It was the same way you sometimes look at Hermione, even these days, when she talks to you. And I don't understand, why she insists on him being evil just because he loved a woman."

"Pardon?" he asked, clearly not understanding.

"Hermione told us, remember? He turned spy because he loved Harry Potter's mother. Because she was killed. And he loved her until – I don't know how long – but Hermione said he loved her until he – seemingly – died. A man with that capacity to love..."

"That's just obsession," he replied.

Judith Granger huffed and rolled away from him. "You're like her. She said the same thing."

"Well, since the woman was dead..."

"That's the point. It's romantic. It's true. It's lasting. It's horrible, yes, but it's also horribly steady and horribly lovely."

He sighed and moved behind his wife, wrapping her in his arms. "And you're terribly, horribly romantic."

"Mrgh," she replied and rather uncomfortably, crossed her arms over her chest and pushed his back.

"Jude, don't get mad at me. You know I'm an insensitive clod. I know about teeth and know that I love you but other than that...no."

She smiled despite herself and turned to face him. "All I said was that someone like him has to have a great capacity to love and I saw that when he interacted with his daughter. And she only sees the teacher, you know? That is what I think is wrong. She sees the professional being, not the private man."

"Maybe he doesn't want her to see the private man. Do you want Mister Warren to see you like this?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, of course not. Leering old bugger. But..."

"But I know – she didn't even try. And Mister Warren tries all the time."

"Not that again," she sighed. "Jealous, John?"

"Nope," he grinned. "I have you in my arms and he has to be content with a blow up doll."

"Oh John," she groaned. "You had to say that now, didn't you?"

He chuckled and kissed her briefly. "Yes. And your plan?"

"Plan? Oh – plan. Well, let's just say that I borrowed Hermione's owl earlier and will go to see her still-father-in-law in London tomorrow."

Jonathan Granger rolled his eyes. "You'll only be fighting with her again."

"Yes, but that man is interesting. And he should have a professional teeth cleaning," she blinked and snuggled into his embrace.

xx

She couldn't sleep. Just couldn't. No matter what Ophelia tried – not moving, not thinking, talking to the dog, not talking to the dog, the duvet over her body, one foot out of it, the other inside, or the other way round – she couldn't possibly sleep. First it was too warm, then it was too cold, then too warm again and her head was whirring.

Clockwise, anticlockwise, nettles and peppermint that were thrown into the bubbling liquid. And how Sirfather had shown her how to mash some things. How to use the mort-something and the pest. Or was that pester? It was nice and stony and very, very heavy. But she liked to crush and mash and mush leaves and other things in there. It was fun.

And then, he was always so close behind her and she had utterly enjoyed that feeling.

He was just made her feel safe and even though she really really really liked the warmth in her bed, she couldn't help but...and why not?

"Come, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood," she whispered and took hold of her cuddly, padding quietly out of her room and, across the hall, into his bedroom. The door was open and not only ajar had it had been before and Ophelia stood for a moment.

It was a nice room – as this was a nice flat. Much nicer than Mummy's or – yuck – Madame Sylvie's. Madame Sylvie's had those red light bulbs everywhere and pink scarves or something hanging over everything. And pink curtains.

"Ophelia?" Sirfather suddenly asked, and he sounded like she had never heard him before. Oh – she had not meant to wake him but apparently this was what she had done. He sounded tired and groggy and sleepy.

She said nothing – couldn't think of anything to say and just walked as quietly as she could towards his bed.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked and his voice really sounded gentle – he had never sounded so gentle before and she just wanted to hear that voice all the time. It was so low and she bet she could feel it when she pressed her ear against his chest.

She shook her head slowly and, with a questioning glance, looked at him. "Can't sleep, Sirfather," she whispered and her lower lip – even though she didn't want to – began to tremble.

He made a humming noise and sat up a little, lifting the edge of his duvet. "Come in then," he growled but it was a nice growl. And she had woken him. She would growl as well when she would be woken like that.

"Thank you, Sirfather," she whispered and lay down, and only noticed now that her Sirfather was sleeping in a t-shirt and underwear. Or shorts. She wasn't sure but her own cold feet connected with his naked thighs and he hissed.

"Girl, how long have you been out of bed? Your feet are freezing," he complained and she looked up fearfully.

"Not long," she replied and – since he made no move to stop her, pressed her feet against his very warm legs and her entire body closer to him.

And there was this warm feeling again, the lovely, wonderful, warm, cosy, amazing feeling when she suddenly felt one of his arms going around her and the other underneath her head.

She was hugged by her father! Sirfather – no, that probably didn't fit any more. He was no sir any more. She would have to think of another name. But not now.

Now, she was tired. Very, very tired and her eyes fell shut but there was one thing she would have to say before she fell asleep in her father's arms. One thing he should know.

"I love you," she whispered and didn't notice the nose pushed in her hair, smelling her anymore since she was already asleep. She didn't notice the quick tightening of arms around her and she didn't notice the disbelieving, surprised, shocked loook on her Sirfather's face.

xx

Hermione paced her room – her old nursery. She had been wrong, probably, about Severus Snape. But maybe not.

And how the hell had he ever managed to get a daughter? What kind of woman was the child's mother?

She didn't know. Absolutely didn't know.

Would Minerva McGonagall know? Probably not. Hagrid? He – sometimes, ventured into Knockturn Alley. Harry.

She opened her window and whistled for her owl and sat down on her old desk – and wrote two short notes. One for Harry – one for Hagrid. Either one should know at least something about it.

xx


	8. Chapter 8

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

There was one person he saw regularly – never really talked to – but one person who came in about once a month – said hello – he tried to be civil – and he knew if there was anything major happening where he used to be, he would be informed. Not that he was interested – not much at least.

And he knew that Hagrid would be in today – and, seeing his daughter sleeping so peacefully next to him, with her little feet somehow wedged between his thighs, he had absolutely no intention of opening the apothecary. And letting him see her.

Nobody, absolutely nobody had shown interest in him – and he liked it that way. He ran his shop, he did what he had to do to make a living and now he had a daughter. He did not need any good advice from anyone. Not the matrons at Hogwarts, not – oh no. Of course the Weasley woman would already know – courtesy of former Miss Granger or still Miss Granger or whatever – he did not care. But then again, Molly Weasley would not care much. After all – he was still, and had been all the time – the person to injure her son – who had cost him his ear. She could be quite – resentful.

Besides, the Weasleys, as a rule, were a respectable family. Knockturn Alley – and his shop by extension – were the complete opposite of respectable.

Still – money wasn't earned by itself – and he slipped from the bed, letting Ophelia sleep. Why he did that exactly, he wasn't sure. But it had been late when she had come to his room the night before, when she had told him – told him – told him...no, he could not repeat it. But she had said it.

In her voice, muffled against his chest and she had clung to him. Had warmed her feet on his thighs.

He shook himself internally – and got up, dressing, watching her but she slept on – half on his pillow, half on her stuffed animal. Cuddled into his duvet.

Severus Snape sighed – and turned away, but, looking over his shoulder, he raised his wand and a beautiful, silver horse sprang from it, poised, watching over the bed.

xx

Hermione thought. Had thought all night long. And had thought some more. Another of those almost sleepless nights and she would be a walking menace, as she always was when she did not sleep enough.

Instead, she had avoided her mother, had avoided her father, had gotten up early, had taken her books, her notes, and had gone to the garden, a coat on, a warming charm in place, and, surrounded by the rustle of leaves, she had worked a little. In the fresh air, trying to clear her head.

She had written two letters – and had received no reply yet. Neither from Hagrid, nor from Harry. And really – she did not actually think it was a good idea now. She had acted too rash – she still did that sometimes, and really, Severus Snape was none of her business.

But the child – not that that was her business – but there was a child, an innocent soul involved. And she was not convinced, even though her mother had been right and he had handled her with a certain kind of protectiveness – that he was the right person to bring up a girl.

Yet, the rational side of her brain argued, she didn't know that for sure.

Her mum had been right – and Hermione hated to admit that. She did not know him. She did only remember the teacher and well, she had been influenced by her husband.

Her eyes widened and she slammed the books shut, put them onto her notes and sprinted inside.

"Mum, have you seen a..."

"Good morning, Hermione," Judith Granger, a cup of coffee in front of her, the children sitting opposite her, munching on their cereal.

"Morning, Mum," she replied quickly and kissed the tops of her children's heads. "Have you seen a..."

"Parchment that came half an hour ago? Yes. With a large brown owl that made a mess in the living room? Yes. On the coffee table," she replied, not really looking up.

"It's the papers," Hermione said gloomily and stalked off, hoping that her mother would, despite their fight, support her in this.

xx

"I'll be right back, children," Judith Granger said and stood up, the cup of coffee on the table. "John!" she shouted then and smiled at Rose and Hugo.

"Yes?" her husband came down the stairs, and she walked towards him, past the living room where her daughter sat – on the couch, over some papers.

"Look after them, please," she whispered, pointing at the kitchen and as he nodded, she hurried to the living room and quietly, sat down next to her. "And?"

Hermione looked up. "It's the official separation papers," she said quietly. "I'll sign those, Ronald will sign those, we wait two months, sign more papers and it's over."

Judith sighed and put her arms around Hermione's shoulders. "It's okay, love."

"No, it's not. Failed marriage," Hermione said softly and obviously her breath caught in her throat and she put her face in her hands. "I knew it was coming but it's still...very odd."

"Of course it is," she replied just as softly and pulled her to herself. "But you're strong, darling, you're very strong and you'll pull through. You might love yet – the real love, the real thing."

"What do you mean, the real thing?" Hermione jumped up and glared at her mother.

She sighed and patted the couch next to her. "Sit down, girl. I like Ron. You know that," she waited until Hermione had stopped glaring at had sat down again. "And I know that you're emotional and in something that you don't know how to get out of. You're probably sitting here, every night, and thinking about what you've done wrong. But you didn't. Ronald and you – I'm not sure you were completely suited for each other. You were friends for such a long time and yes, it can work out but..."

"I didn't love him enough," Hermione replied sadly. "And he probably didn't love me enough."

She fell into Judith's arms – and once more, cried.

xx

She rubbed her eyes. Her Sirfather's bed was so comfortable. Even more comfortabler than her own bed. And warmer. And smelled of him. But he wasn't there.

He wasn't there and cold panic ran up and down Ophelia's back.

Had had abandoned her. Had left her. Wasn't there any more.

She sat up in fear, looking around. It was all the same but then there was – a huge silver horse. In the middle of Sirfather's bedroom.

"What are you?" she asked it, her eyes widely open.

"Ophelia, please get dressed and come down to the shop. Carefully down the stairs," the horse suddenly spoke in her Sirfather's voice and she stared and stared.

"Sirfather?" she asked in a small voice.

"Please get dressed and come down to the shop. Carefully down the stairs," it said again.

Ophelia wasn't sure what she was looking at. It was a horse. Silvery-white, a little see-through, large. Broad. Huge. Beautiful. It bowed his head a little, whinnied at her and – spoke in her Sirfather's voice. Once more, than just vanished.

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes again.

Maybe – well, Sirfather could do a lot of things with his wooden stick. He could make things appear and disappear, had made the clothes fit and had even once made the bowl full of porridge fly. Maybe – maybe he had made the horse stay there to watch her as she was sleeping and made sure that she was safe (again!) and that she wasn't scared. He was down in the athopecary and waited for her. Maybe he would let her brew again. Or she could watch him when he was so mean to other people.

She scrambled off the bed and ran into her room. Very happy that she was about to have another day before her in her new, wonderful clothes, black woollen tights and with her Sirfather.

xx

He opened the apothecary, as usually, to Squiffy Mary Kelly, got the rest of the money she owed him (which was a new record) and then set on brewing some more Pepper Up. People would come. They would need it and he would sell the vial for about 3 Galleons. That would bring in enough money. Not that he needed it. The apothecary worked very well and brought in a lot of money. He had, actually, nothing to worry about. And neither had Ophelia.

Still – he wouldn't miss this opportunity to make some more. And to see the respectable witches and wizards of England, and maybe Scotland, bowing to him. More or less.

He smirked. That would be good.

Revenge, after all, was really a dish best served cold.

And he had his revenge. Would have it. Until the end of his days – in situations like this. When everyone else thought about the best for humankind. In one part of the world. And did not think about the other parts of it.

He was pulled out of his vengeful thoughts by a little noise on the stairs and he knew that his daughter was up. And had heard the Patronus. And was smart.

He arched an eyebrow. That was his daughter alright.

And yes – it was his daughter alright as she came down the stairs. Dressed in black from head to toe. Snakes on the buckles of her shoes, her black robes firmly in place, her hair even combed.

She was too self-sufficient for her age.

But then – she smiled. Her face lit up and she ran down the last two steps and straight into his legs, hugging them. He would probably never get used to her hugging his legs – or any part of him, really.

"Hullo," she said and smiled up at him, her chin painfully pressed against his leg.

"Good morning, Ophelia," he replied a little stiffly but then his hands slowly found their way to her shoulders and he held them. A little.

"Brewing, Sirfather?" she asked and looked up at him – hopeful? Sort of, yes.

"Yes, we brew the same potion we brewed yesterday."

She pulled away a little and still looked up at him – and her eyebrow was just as arched as his was. "What horse was that?" she asked suddenly and he knew he had to sit down with her – and explain magic.

xx

A lot of people thought Knockturn Alley itself was evil but it wasn't true. There were some shops that were truly helpful. Snape's – for instance. Snape always had the best stuff for those horrible slugs that attacked his pumpkins.

He made it a point of going there at least once a month. Not that the Headmistress knew that he was going. She would be bombarding him with questions about Snape, what he was doing, how he was looking, what he was talking about. They never talked about much. Just said hello, talking about a potion, saying goodbye. That was it.

But Hagrid knew – instinctively – that Snape would tell him if there was anything going on. Or would let him know. Because really, Snape did not talk much. And Snape probably knew that he would drop hints if something on his side of the Wizarding World happened.

He walked heavily through the Alley and people avoided him. He was used to it. And he didn't mind.

The windows to Snape's apothecary were clean for once and he looked in – his brow beetled. A little girl, standing in front of Snape who sat on a stool – in black clothes – obviously listening to him intently.

And suddenly – the letter in his pocket – Hermione's – began to make sense.

xx

"Thanks for taking me, Arthur," Judith Granger smiled. "I wasn't sure what you'd say now that Hermione and Ronald..."

"Hermione will always be part of our family," he replied solemnly, "but I don't see what you want in Diagon Alley."

She smirked. "I need to meet someone and I can get out on my own but getting in without a witch or wizard is difficult."

"No trouble, Judith," he smiled and took her arm. A moment later, she was in the middle of Diagon Alley – only a few feet away from Gringotts. "Will you be alright? I should go into work."

"Yes, fine, Arthur. Thank you so much," she grinned and bent over to kiss his cheek. "We'll be in touch?"

"Definitely," he squeezed her hand and a second later, he disappeared through the masses and left her standing there.

But Judith Granger merely pulled her jacket closer around herself and, steadily, she made her way towards Knockturn Alley. She would just talk to him.

And to his daughter.

xx

"I can do all that?" she asked, amazement written all over her face.

"In time, yes," he replied quickly. "You will go to a school where you will learn it."

"School?"

"Yes, Hogwarts," he explained and saw her immediately shaking her head. "Why are you shaking your head?"

"Don't want to go away to school," she said, her lower lip trembling.

"When you're eleven, girl. Not yet."

She still shook her head and suddenly, she had thrown herself at him again – and clung to him again. It was getting a habit and he sighed, his arms going around her once more. "Don't want to leave," she whispered into his chest and he felt a tightening there. An odd sort of tightening.

"Not yet, Ophelia," he whispered in her hair – somehow his mouth had found its way down there, "Not yet."

She nodded but buried her face deeper into his robes and he – suddenly, looked over her head and saw exactly what he did not want to see.

Noses – pushed against the window of his apothecary.

_**xx**_

_**I am back! Happy? **_

_**I found it difficult to get started on writing again but I hope this it to your liking. **_

_**Thank you for all your reviews and reading it.  
**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**I'm sorry, I'm dreadful when it comes to writing accents and dialects. Bear with me, okay? And do forgive me if it reads horribly.  
**_

_**xx**_

"Yer 'Ermione's mother, aren't ye?"

"Uhm, yes," Judith replied, staring up at the very hairy, very tall, very broad man – and remembered. "You're Hagrid. From Hogwarts."

"That I am, ma'am," he bowed his head. "What brings yer here?" he pointed at the apothecary – in which Severus Snape was holding his daughter closely to himself, obviously consoling her somehow. With his hands gently rubbing up and down her back. And Hermione thought that man couldn't love – really – what utter rubbish. Of course he could. Everyone who saw this would realise. He held the little girl so tight and kissed the top of her head and soothed her. Just like fathers in general – those loving their children – did.

"I, erm, my grandson is a little ill and he needs that, what's it called? Pepper Up Potion and the apothecary in Diagon Alley is out."

"I heard," he grumbled. "Hogwarts going low as well."

"Really?" she asked with a smile and knew that she had to, somehow, get in before this hairy man did. Needed to witness this father/daughter bonding more closely. "Excuse me," she simply said then and stepped past him, to open the door.

"Lemme help ye," he said immediately and held it open for her and she had to admit to herself that she wished she had trained her facial muscles a little better. It was usually simple – wearing that mask at work and she could grimace – at least with her mouth and nose – as much as she wanted. But she could not hide the fact that she didn't particularly like to come into the shop with a Hogwarts teacher. Or staff therefore. She wasn't sure which. Couldn't remember. But she most certainly could not imagine Severus Snape, after all she had heard, being on friendly terms with someone from Hogwarts.

"Thank you," she smiled sweetly, or tried to and it might have come across as a little fake but he did not seem to mind at all and grinned back.

"Mornin' Snape," he boomed behind her and she couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Good morning, Mister Snape," she said gentler, "good morning Ophelia." She looked over – and the girl still clung to her daddy. Tightly. Her face buried somewhere – her black hair disappearing, not visible over his black clothes. And her black clothes.

"Ophelia?" Hagrid asked.

She watched interestedly, as Severus Snape got up, his daughter clinging to him, wrapping her legs automatically around him. It was just as Hermione had always done with her daddy. Obviously, no matter what, this girl, Ophelia, was a daddy's girl. Just as Hermione had been. Or still was. A little.

He – Severus Snape – merely nodded his head and sat her on the chair, whispering something to her she didn't hear, then turned to them.

"What is it you require?" he asked coldly.

"Is it true y'have a daughter?" Hagrid asked – immediately.

"Obviously," he drawled and Judith Granger knew an opportunity when she saw one. And that was it – the girl looking at her, remembering her, and she pulled a large picture book from her handbag.

"Hi Ophelia," she said softly, ignoring Snape's glare and Hagrid's astounded expression (and a sort of gurgling noise). "I brought you something."

The girl – merely shook her head.

"It's a book that my daughter had when she was your age," she bent down to Ophelia. "Want to take a look at it?"

She shook her head again.

"What are you doing?" Snape snarked.

"I brought this for your daughter," she replied, standing straight once more. "It's an old book of Hermione's and I thought your girl would enjoy it." She could glare as well – just so he knew – and she did.

"My daughter has books."

"Snape, when didya get a daughter?" Hagrid asked.

xx

He wanted those people out of his shop. That Granger woman was just as interfering as her daughter, bringing his Ophelia books – as if he couldn't afford to buy her some. As if he didn't know what she needed.

And Hagrid. If the entire Wizarding World had not known about his having a child, they would surely do now. Within the next half hour or so.

"Either buy something, both of you, or get out of my apothecary," he threatened silkily, in the voice he knew made most people – well, tremble.

And the Granger woman – nice as she had seemed the day before, glared. "I came to bring your daughter a book. Nothing more, nothing less."

"She does not need this particular – or any other book from you. She has books."

"I have nice books," Ophelia piped up. "And Sirfather said not to take anything from strangers."

For a moment, he could not help himself and looked, almost proudly, at his daughter. Yes, she had understood. She would survive. She would be tough, she would make her way into the world. One day. Not yet. But she would. When she was grown up. Older. A lot older. She would. He would help her but she had grasped the basics.

Do not trust anyone (well, of course she trusted him but he was her father, after all, wasn't he?) and do not take gifts. From anyone. Not if you don't know what that might entail.

And still, she was a little girl. She was four and a half. She was a baby. She had cried in his arms. There were still traces of tears all over her face. Just because she had not wanted to leave him.

Did not want to leave him.

"Apothecary's closed," he said suddenly, spinning around looking at his two customers.

"Excuse me?" Judith Granger asked.

"It's closed," he repeated slowly – even for her to understand. Mother of a Gryffindor. He knew where Hermione Granger had inherited that from. Clearly.

And he wanted them out. Wanted to brew in peace. Have his shop invaded by cruel, drunken, weird, dunderheaded types. Those that usually came in. He could deal with them.

But the revenge? Not as easy as it should have been. Not as satisfying with Ophelia sitting there, looking, frankly, even more scared of Hagrid and the Granger woman than of anyone else, even Squiffy Mary Kelly.

"Snape, I need flesh-eatin' slug repellent," Hagrid said slowly. "Tis that time of year again."

"Fine," he spat and had a vial in his hand within seconds. "You know how it works, no need to ask. Seven Galleons."

xx

Snape was never, not as a rule, personable. He wasn't nice. He wasn't one to chit-chat with his customers. He made the potions, or in this case, a concentrate, handed that to you, wanted the money and that was all. But that rude?

No, Hagrid could not remember him ever being that rude. Brisk and short and sharp. Rude? Not really.

"'ere ya go," he had the money ready in one of the many pockets of his coat and put it on the counter. "She's a nice young girl, she is," he nodded towards the quiet little one, sitting stiffly, almost scared, on her chair. "You'll say when yer need help," he simply said – couldn't think of anything better to say and turned around, the vial with the slug repellent shoved deeply into his pocket.

He had thought that maybe, just maybe, Hermione's mum would have been smart enough to leave as well but when he looked back inside the clean window, she was still standing there, a large book in her hands and he walked away, not sure what to tell the Headmistress and everyone else.

xx

The lady had been in the day before. She remembered that. And she remembered that Sirfather had said that she could say hello. And tell her her name but to take a book from her?

That would be like stealing.

At least, Mummy had always said that when she had merely looked at some of the things on Mummy's dresser. There were those funny little crayons that she used to make her eyes black around the edges and those that made the lips red or pink. And there were little pots of colour in them that Mummy usually put on her eyelids or her cheeks and sometimes, sometimes Ophelia thought that that was too much. That Mummy did not look like Mummy any more. But different.

So, once, Ophelia remembered clearly, she had climbed up the chair that stood in front of the cupboard with the mirror where Mummy stored those things. And they were all lined up perfectly. And actually, Ophelia, who was still Fiffy by then, had wanted to draw her a picture. There was never any paper around but she thought that maybe, with one of those crayons, she could draw on the mirror. Then Mummy would see it immediately when she got up from her nap.

She had been extra-quiet but then, Mummy had stood right behind her and the long, painted fingernails of one of her hands had dug into her shoulder painfully and Ophelia, who was still Fiffy by then, had yelped in pain. She hadn't even started on the picture. She had just opened the red crayon that Mummy used for her lips.

"Tayking what don't belong to yer is stealin', young lady," her mother had said and Ophelia, Fiffy, had ran away from her mother's room. And had never managed to draw her a picture.

And that here was the same, wasn't it? Well, the woman had wanted to give her the book, but still – it wasn't hers. She hadn't paid for it. Or rather Sirfather hadn't paid for it and she had said that the book had belonged to her daughter.

That would be stealing from her daughter. Whoever that was.

And Ophelia did not want to be a stealer. She didn't.

She turned to her father, her eyes wide and really didn't want to run to him again. She was a big girl already. Almost five. And with almost five, girls did not need cuddles all the time.

That was what Mummy had said. But Sirfather, he always cuddled her. And protected her. And made sure she was no stealer, even if she didn't mean to be one.

Ophelia bit her lip hard and suddenly, the decision whether to run to Sirfather or not was out of her hands when she felt him next to her, his hands gently touching her upper arm.

"I think you better leave. You're scaring my daughter," he said in his evil voice. But it wasn't directed at her. It was directed at the woman. The one who wanted to make her a stealer.

The woman than made a face, "I only wanted to be nice. My daughter thinks you're incapable of love. I don't think so. I think you just don't want to seem weak in front of anyone for expressing love. But that is your own cup of tea. If you can't even recognise niceness, well, then I bid you good bye. And good bye, Ophelia. I'm sorry you didn't want to look at the book."

Ophelia bit her lip again and leaned a bit more against her Sirfather. Didn't they understand that she did want to look but couldn't since she didn't want to steal? Didn't they know what stealing meant?

"Good bye, Missus Granger," Sirfather said and made his mean face – until she had closed the door behind her.

"Let's brew, Ophelia," he said then and his voice – his voice had changed immediately. It was kind again. And nice. And her Sirfather's voice and she just smiled up at him, knowing that she was safe with him.

That he would not let her become a stealer or a liar or any of the other bad things that Mummy always said she would be when she was grown up.

Sirfather took good care of her.

Even if she really needed another name for him.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**There is a direct quote from my favourite TV show in there and if you find it, you'll get a dedication in the next chapter!  
**_

_**xx**_

She knew Rose and Hugo were fine with her father and Miss Breaze in the dentistry. There were books, there were drills that especially Hugo loved and there were always x-rays that Rosie loved to look at. Hermione knew that they were well looked after and that she could, without any worry, go to Godric's Hollow.

Not that she really wanted to – since she suspected Ron would be there as well – but after signing the papers, after trying to work some more, she knew she had to find out if Harry did know something about Snape's daughter.

And if that could be combined with tea and cakes and sandwiches with him and Ginny, so much the better. She hadn't seen them since she had left Ron. Or the house they had lived in together. Besides, she wasn't sure which side they were on.

No matter what people said, no matter that they had separated in relative peace, there were sides. And yes, she had left him. She was the guilty one. She was the one who had stopped loving him. Who had lost her love. She wasn't sure whether Ron had – no, she was. Really. He had as well.

And well, probably her mother had been right – or maybe not. But if she compared her parents marriage and hers – world's apart.

No, probably she shouldn't. Her parents were – made for each other. All through the years, ever since she had been a girl, ever since she could remember, her parents had been – tender – loving – towards each other. She couldn't even count the times she had seen them kissing somewhere. Even after thirty years of marriage.

She hadn't kissed Ron in months. And they hadn't snogged, like she had caught her parents doing a few weeks ago – on a visit – in their kitchen. Her parents. Married for over thirty years – 34 to be exact – snogged. And she – hadn't done that in ages. Probably some time after Hugo had been born.

She sighed – and apparated out of her parents' garden, straight to Godric's Hollow.

Why was it, really, that her parents had a better love life than she had? Or rather – why did they have a love life and she didn't? Not that she really wanted to know. But muggles could only close doors – and not use Silencing Charms. And closed doors worked only so far.

She shook her head and sighed again, looking at Harry and Ginny's house. Another perfect marriage. Three children. No fights, no silences – at least as far as she knew. The love not lost. It had worked out. Somehow. And she had failed at it.

Failed at the one thing she had always wanted. A steady, kind, loving home, a family. She didn't have it any more.

Lived with her children with her parents. Brilliant achievement.

She breathed deeply, and, not knowing what to expect, knocked on their door.

xx

Judith Granger, through three teeth-cleanings, one bleaching session and a fixed cavity, couldn't stop her bad mood. She had never been treated that way. Never in her life – and she was a dentist. People were scared of her and people disliked her. She was bitten, she was sometimes gagged at (yes, that was possible), she was sometimes spat at. She was used to being treated with suspicion. And even some sort of hostility. Yes – yes. But never like this. Never this rudely. And never without a reason.

Because, really, people who were usually not that nice to her had it coming. And she was doing something to them. Not to Severus Snape. She had just wanted to bring the girl a book. It couldn't possibly be interesting to sit on a chair in a shop all day long. She had just really wanted to be nice. Nothing more, nothing less.

And not to have that appreciated – not nice.

She was angry all the way home, all the time she watched her husband play with the children, all the time she read Hermione's note that she had gone to visit Harry and his wife and all the time she prepared dinner.

"You're a very violent masher, aren't you, Jude?" John's soft, very familiar voice came from right behind her and she felt an arm on her shoulder.

"I don't like lumps in my mashed potatoes," she huffed and shrugged his hand off.

"And what got you in a mood?" he asked again, his arms sneaking around her waist.

"That former teacher of Hermione's," she huffed and kept on mashing the potatoes. "Where are Rose and Hugo?"

"Watching the telly," he replied. "They begged and I wanted to know why my darling wife is in such a bad mood."

"He's a rude man," she huffed. "I don't doubt that he loves his daughter but he doesn't love anyone or anything else."

"You don't know that," he replied and put his chin on her shoulder.

"No, of course I don't know that but the way he spoke to me...John, nobody has talked to me like that since Jean McDonald at University."

"Who was she?"

"The girl who had a crush on you," she pushed his hands away again. "You should remember her."

He shrugged. "I don't."

"And she was just like he was. Rude without a reason. You're nice to that person and the reply is just mean-spirited. Without a bloody reason. No reason at all. I wanted to bring his daughter a book. One of Hermione's and he threw me out."

"Why did you go there in the first place?" he asked and stepped away a little.

"I don't know," she spat. "I was interested. I told you. It's a mystery. Nobody knows he has a daughter. Nobody. Absolutely nobody. And you can't hide a child like that for such a long time. You know how often Hermione was in the papers after the war. This world is a curious one – a nosy one. They have everything in their Prophet. Everything. I don't doubt that it would have been in it. And the child was so – she's so tiny and so well-behaved and so quiet and I wanted to do something nice for her. And thought I could bring back the potion for Hugo."

"What potion? He's not sick."

"No, it doesn't matter. And I don't know why I'm getting so up in the air about it. I don't have anything to do with that man."

"You know how you are when there are children involved," he smirked and pressed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You're lost."

She sighed – slapped his arm and turned back to mashing the potatoes. "Cottage Pie later."

xx

Both weren't hostile. On the contrary. Both Harry and Ginny were, well, nice. Both hugged her, and they didn't really talk about her failed marriage. No, they had just sat down, little Albus Severus (she doubted Snape knew – but oh well...she would get around to asking eventually) had made himself comfortable on her lap and they had talked about Harry's job, Ginny's job, her job. The children and Harry, well, he had sort of looked at her suspiciously for a while. He probably knew she was disliking his habit of taking ages to answer owls.

And yes, they looked happy. Very happy. Even touching each other from time to time. Every time either one of them got up to get one thing or another, there was a tiny touch. Nothing major. But just – intimacy.

Not what she had had for a while.

Oh well – she shrugged to herself – and decided to plunge straight in. Even though Al was still perched on her lap.

"So?" she asked suddenly.

"So what?" Ginny asked back – looking puzzled but Harry, Harry knew what she was talking about.

"I don't know anything. I hadn't even heard but when I got your owl..."

"What are you talking about?" Ginny asked again.

"Snape has a daughter," Hermione replied quickly. "And I asked Harry whether he knew about it."

"And I didn't. Until I got the owl and did some questioning in the, erm, registration office. He has a daughter, Ophelia Sophie Snape. Born April 14th 2007 in London. Lived with her mother up until about two weeks ago. He registered her then. Girl's a witch, the documents say. Nothing else. No name of the mother," he shrugged. "Since it was so clearly stated that she was a witch and already on the list for Hogwarts, I suppose her mother is a muggle. Otherwise, well, you know how it is."

"Yes, I know," she sighed. Children of purebloods, or a marriage between a pureblood and a halfblood were only marked specifically in the documents if they were Squibs, not magical. And those papers were magic themselves. They knew even before it manifested, really – and only rarely wrong. Thank all the deities known to men and women that they were not open to be viewed by the public.

One more thing – this marking – she would have to fight against.

"Four and a half then? She looked younger."

Harry shrugged again. "I only know that and I will not look further," he said with finality. "He's made his life with his apothecary and I do not want to intrude on it."

"Snape has a daughter? A four year old? How?" Ginny asked, and lifted her son from Hermione's lap, sending him to play with his siblings.

"You know how," Harry rolled his eyes. "And I will not take part in this speculating. I spent too much time already thinking about this and researching. This is all I'll do." He got up and walked out of the room.

"Still not made his peace with him. Adores what he did but can't really say it out loud."

Hermione shrugged. "It's okay, I guess, doesn't matter. I was just curious and probably shouldn't have been."

"Come on, Snape's a daughter. That's huge. You're allowed to be a little nosy. What does she look like? Did you see her? Why were you there?"

Hermione sighed. "I went down there because there's a Pepper Up Potion shortage. Because of that epidemic in Wales and you know that Hugo gets a cold easily. So I thought I could just go there and see his shop and you know. And there she was. With him. Holding Snape's hand."

"A little girl holding Snape's hand," Ginny repeated astoundedly. "Really? Must have looked a sight."

"Especially because she was dressed all in black and she looks like him. Exactly like him. Well, not the nose but the rest. And they walked along Knockturn Alley together. I mean I would have thought everything possible in Knockturn Alley. Really, but not Snape and a little girl clinging to him."

Ginny grimaced. "I can't imagine really."

"You can go down there. She has a chair behind his counter and apparently sits there all the time," Hermione explained further. "He keeps her in the apothecary."

"Keeps her?"

"Well, what else."

"Stop it, you two," Harry stepped back into the living room where they sat. "He deserves happiness and he deserves to have a child without being made a spectacle of."

xx

Daddy didn't fit. Father didn't fit. Dad didn't fit. Papa didn't fit. Pa didn't fit.

And she didn't really know any more names for fathers.

And she wasn't sure what his first name was. Sev'wus or something. Sevrus maybe. Snape was his last name. Like her last name now. He had explained that she was Ophelia Snape when he had picked her up from that aunt in that strange place who had picked her up from Madame Sylvie's place.

Before that she had just been Fiffy. Didn't know if she had a last name. Mummy had never said.

Mummy. The logical other form was daddy.

She sighed and stretched out a little. He had put her in the bath. Again. And had said that he would come in to help her wash her hair. And she really really really appreciated that. The last time, she had tried alone and all the soapy stuff had run into her eyes and she had to cry a little. And it had burned. So maybe, if he did, it wouldn't burn so much. Because, really, she liked her hair if it was washed. It wasn't that heavy and didn't feel so dirty and didn't hang into her eyes as much.

And he had said that he would do it. And he, Daddy, always kept his promise.

She still wasn't sure whether Daddy was the right word. She would try. Maybe. And see if he liked it as well. And if he didn't – his face would show it – and she could go back to Sirfather. She would try. And if Daddy didn't fit – then she would think of something else and use Sirfather in the meantime. Yes.

She smiled at her three-headed dog that was sitting on the closed toilet seat and watched her bath before she picked up the soap and clumsily tried to wash herself.

She had enjoyed that day. Well, apart from that giant who had looked at her so intently and that woman with the book. But afterwards – afterwards was great. There were no other people in the athopecary and he had shown her how to peel flobberworms and she had been allowed to stir in that potion again and it had changed colour again and he – Daddy – had stood behind her again and had helped and she had sort of snuggled up to him. Well, she had pressed her back against his stomach and she really liked that feeling.

He always knew how to make her feel good, how to make her smile and happy and feel protected and safe. He let her sleep in his bed.

Mummy had never allowed that. But her bed had smelled bad as well. A weird smell. And that perfume. And she always had to sneeze. And Mummy smoked in her bedroom and she didn't like smoke.

It was nice to sleep in his bed and she wondered – no – she didn't wonder, she made the plan of not being able to sleep that night again. So she could cuddle with him again in his bed. Which smelled good, was warm and cosy and wonderful.

She smiled and turned on her stomach and closed her eyes and dived a little under the warm water.

xx

"Ophelia!" he said loudly – his voice sounded a little odd – when he saw her with her head under the water.

Oh no, he had left her alone in the large tub in his bathroom and she had drowned. He had known it was too deep. He liked his bathroom. It was airy, it was light, it had white tiles, a white tub, a white toilet, a white sink and it had two windows. Real windows, not enchanted. A little cupboard for potions and his toiletries. His razor, his comb, his aftershave.

But it was a large tub, too deep for such a small girl. How would he explain to anyone that he had let his daughter drown?

He tore towards the tub and knelt down in front of it immediately, pulling her up.

"Hello, Daddy," she grinned and wiped the water from her eyes and her hair out of her face.

"What did you think you were doing?" he asked angrily.

Her eyes went large and wide and she bit her lip. "Looking under the water," she said in a small voice.

He knew he had to take a deep breath before he did anything, said anything. He had scared her enough already. But – what had she been thinking pretending to have drowned?

She was his duty – it was his duty to keep her safe and well and healthy and protected. It had nothing to do with worry of her well-being, it was just that it was his job.

Probably.

"Ready?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and steady.

"For what?" she asked, still seemingly a little afraid of him being angry.

"Washing your hair, girl," he drawled and took the shampoo vial in his hand.

She nodded – and a smile appeared on her face again. "But..."

"But?" he asked. "Please speak in complete sentences."

"Not in the eyes?"

"No, not in the eyes," he replied immediately and carefully, since he had never done it before, poured a bit of the self-made liquid from the vial onto her head, put it down again and, slowly, moved his hands to her little head, his fingers onto it and she looked up in that moment and he realised that she had not been afraid of him.

He didn't need any Legilimency for this. Her face was open like a book to him. She was afraid, yes, but not of him. She was afraid of doing something wrong. Making him angry by doing the wrong thing. Disappointing him, probably.

And quite suddenly, washing her hair was very simple. It just came to him.

Even though – the warm glow in his stomach irritated him.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews, please continue to do so. The plot will pick up soon (with more of Rose and Hugo), I promise. But those of you who have read Acquittal know that I take my sweet time with everything...I hope you don't mind. **_


	11. Chapter 11

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**Dedicated to stsgirlie – since she found the quote: "You're a very violent masher, aren't you?" from the British TV series As Time goes by.**_

_**xx**_

"You can't be serious."

"Very, Hagrid saw her."

"Hagrid?"

"Flesh-eating slug repellent. You know that he goes to Knockturn Alley to get it."

"And he saw her with a child?"

"Pay attention, Poppy, will you? Snape has a daughter. A little girl. Apparently. Hagrid said not much but I saw it."

"Saw it, Minerva?"

"Legilimency. He didn't really want to tell me, only said he had a daughter and that we're supposed to leave him be."

"Hagrid said that?"

"Yes. You're not usually daft."

"I am not now. But Severus Snape with a daughter? It's just so..."

"Yes."

xx

"Have you heard?"

"Have I heard what?"

"About Severus Snape's daughter. He has one, Hagrid says. Oh, and Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ronald Weasley have split up."

"A daughter? Severus Snape? We speak of the same person, don't we?"

"Greasy-haired git Snape, yes."

"And Hermione and Ronald have broken up?"

"Yes. But Snape has a daughter."

"I heard. A daughter? Are you sure it's his?"

"Hagrid is. And the Headmistress is."

"Oh."

xx

"Have you heard that Snape has a daughter?"

"How did he get that?"

"I suppose – oh well, the birds and the bees and maybe he bought a surrogate. You know how those pureblood-obsessed wizards are. Always wanting heirs and securing their titles and whatnot."

"Snape is not a pureblood."

"Close enough."

"I thought he was a halfblood. And that he only pretended to..."

"Who knows?"

"So he really has a daughter?"

"Yes, apparently."

"Oh dear."

xx

"Hermione's run away from Ron."

"What?"

"Hermione's run away from Ron."

"Why?"

"Apparently she was seen in Knockturn Alley in Snape's apothecary the day after she did."

"Really? Do you think it's got something to do with the fact that he has his daughter living with him now?"

"Who knows? They were always quite similar in their ways."

"But you can't honestly believe that the kid living with him is her daughter?"

"No."

xx

"Have you heard that Granger left Weasley because of Snape?"

"What? No. I only heard that he had a daughter now."

"Yes. Apparently it's his and Granger's."

"That can't be!"

"Well, I heard it had lived with him and a nanny since she, of course, had those children with Weasley."

"That can't be. We would have heard."

"Whom do you know in Knockturn Alley?"

"Erm...well..."

"See?"

xx

"What do you mean she has a child with Snape?"

"She's moving in with him."

"But I thought she had two children with Weasley?"

"She had the one with Snape in between them. And he took her in and hid her until about two months ago. That's when Hagrid saw her for the first time and now, it was revealed that it's hers. And his."

"That can't be."

"It is."

xx

"Minerva, have you heard?"

"Have I heard what, Pomona?"

"Hermione Granger's moving in with Severus Snape."

"What? No. Why should she?"

"They've been in love for years, apparently. And that daughter you were talking about? Hers."

"No. That can't be. Pomona, don't be ridiculous."

"It's what I heard. And why shouldn't they be? Hermione Granger and Severus Snape are so similar, Minerva. They both read a lot, they're both interested in the same things and I bet they just found love with one another."

"Utter rubbish."

xx

"You might be moving to your sibling soon."

"What sibling?"

"Don't you know your sibling?"

"Nooo. What's a sibling?"

"Your sister."

"I have to move in with my sister?"

"Hasn't Mummy told you?"

"Uh-uh. But I already sleep in a room with Rosie."

"No, move in with your other sister."

"I don't have another sister."

"Yes, you do."

"Uh-uh. I don't."

xx

"Do I have another sister? Not just you?"

"Uh-uh. No. I only have you brother and don't have a sister."

"But Grandma Molly said that we move in with our other sister."

"What did Grandma Molly say?"

"That we might move in with our sister."

"But we don't have a sister."

"I know but that's what Grandma Molly said."

"Does she think we have a sister?"

"Duh!"

"We'll have to ask Mummy. I don't want to move. I like it with Grandma Jude and Grandpa John."

"Me too."

xx

"Mummy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Will we move?"

"Eventually, we will. We can't stay here forever."

"But we've only been here for a few weeks. We can stay for a little longer, can't we?"

"It's not been a few weeks, Rosie, it's been almost three months now."

"Yes, but we'll not move in with someone we don't know, do we?"

"What do you mean? Of course we won't move in with someone we don't know."

"Not another little girl? Or bigger girl?"

"Rosie, what's gotten into you? What are you talking about?"

"It's just that I, well, do I have a sister?"

"A sister? No. You have your brother Hugo."

"Don't feel my forehead, Mummy, I'm not sick."

"Then why are you talking about sisters? You don't have a sister."

"So we will not move in with my sister because I don't have one?"

"Of course not. You know that."

"Good."

"Who said you had a sister?"

"Nobody."

"Because you have ideas like this on your own?"

"Yes."

"No. Who said such a thing?"

"Erm..."

"Rose? I'm waiting."

"But..."

"Who?"

"Grandma Molly."

xx

"What are you talking about?"

"This, I'm talking about."

"It's the Prophet. You know I don't read the Prophet."

"Maybe you should have. It's in there why you left Ronald."

"What's in there?"

"Snape's in there."

"Snape?"

"Severus Snape."

"What's he got to do with anything?"

"That child of his."

"That child of his?"

"Yes, that child of his."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then read!"

"That's utterly ridiculous and you know it."

"Then why else should you leave Ron?"

"Because I don't love him any more!"

xx

"Daddy, we brew again?"

"Ophelia, it's will we brew again."

"Will we?"

"Yes."

"Can I peel flobberworms?"

"We don't need flobberworms for that potion."

"What potion?"

"The Sober Up for..."

"Squiffy Mary Kelly!"

"I don't know why you like her so much."

"She's funny and you never close apothecary when she comes here."

"No, you know why I on occasion close the apothecary."

"Yes! Because you don't want nosy dunderheaded Hogwarts people here."

"Exactly."

"I'm your girl, right?"

"Will you eat your porridge?"

"Yes, but am I your girl, daddy?"

"Eat."

"When you answer my question."

"Eat."

"Am I your girl, daddy?"

"Yes. On occasion."

"Good!"

"And stop that. You're strangling me. You do not know how much strength you got in those arms of yours."

"Only when I hug you."

"Yes. And you're doing it constantly."

"No."

"No."

"See?"

"You'll be the death of me."

"No. You said those nosy, dunderheaded Hogwarts people will be the death of you."

"Them too."

"Mhhh."

"Don't wipe your porridge-mouth on my cheek."

"I'm giving you a kiss."

"I can see that. But use your napkin."

"Next time."

"Get dressed and we'll go downstairs."

"Can I take a book with me?"

"You ask that every day, Ophelia. What's my answer every day?"

"Yes."

"Yes. Go."

"Thanks Daddy!"

"And don't wipe your porridge-mouth on my cheek."

_**xx**_

_**If you don't like this chapter – I am sorry. It will all be back to normal again tomorrow. In case you haven't realised, the end of the chapter is three and a half months or so after the end of the last chapter. So Christmas has passed and Severus's birthday has passed and we're now at about the end of January. **_

_**Still, I found this an easier way to pass the time. **_

_**Anyway, please review and let me know!**_

_**(oh, and I'll get my new car tomorrow!)**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

She skipped towards the door, the vial in her hand. True, Squiffy Mary Kelly always smelled bad but apart from it, she was a very nice lady. Especially after she had the potion. Daddy didn't understand that but she always smiled at her and told her to be a good little girl and that she was nice and kind for bringing her the potion. But Daddy knew that Squiffy Mary Kelly always gave her an extra Sickle and she was allowed to keep it. He had brought her a piggy bank (actually, it was a, he had explained, a warthog bank) and she put every single Sickle in there. That had been just before Christmas.

And for Christmas – oh, for Christmas he had given her a new dress, a few crayons so she could draw and paint for real and he had made sure she always had room on the table when she wanted to. And sometimes, she just used one of her books, lying on her thighs, when she was sitting on her chair in the apothecary (yes, she could say it now!) and drew there.

She had been sad that she couldn't give him anything for Christmas. She had no money, she hadn't had the crayons yet, nothing. But she had drawn him a lot for his birthday. One with her and him together brewing, one with just her on her chair, one with him talking to a customer in the apothecary and one of them together eating breakfast. He had not smiled when she had given them to him. But – she knew – he had almost smiled. Almost.

Because – there was now a fourth face. When the lines were almost completely gone from his forehead and the left (or was that right? He had only begun teaching her and she couldn't really remember all the time) corner of his mouth twitched a tiny bit. Really. Only a tiny bit. And his eyes were a little more, well, kinder, than usually. They were then more brown than black. But you could only see if when you were standing really close. Or sitting on his lap.

And yes, Ophelia loved sitting on her Daddy's lap (she had settled on that name for the time being. Had thought and thought and thought but nothing had sounded right. Dafa was stupid. Fada just as stupid. Daddysir sounded dumb. Sirdaddy worse. And he had given her the fourth face for the very first time when she had snuggled up to him once after a horrible dream – Madame Sylvie under her bed again – and had said that she felt safe with him. No, she had said something else. She had said 'You're so nice, Daddy.' but yes, he had put on the fourth face). It was just lovely to lean against him and to cuddle with him (he would never say that he cuddled her. Actually, he was someone who didn't say much but it was, in fact, cuddling) and let her hold him tightly.

She would usually put her head on his chest, so that it rested just underneath his chin and so he could put it on it. And he frequently did that.

And just last week – he had discovered her weakness when she hadn't been able to sleep and she had sneaked into his bed again. She had been so tired and in the morning he hadn't really been able to wake her. Until, yes, until, he had poked her in the side. And there he had apparently learned that she was very, very, very ticklish. And he had tickled her. Until she had gotten up. But that was very mean. And now, he used it occasionally and tickled her. Which was really mean.

But he usually made the fourth face when he did so.

And that was mean. She had not intended for him to find out she was ticklish.

But now he did and she knew that he would leave her untickled at least during the day. But that was just because he only rarely had the chance to do so while she was with him in the apothecary. She sat on her chair and tried to read, sometimes, when there were not many customers, she would ask him for a word she didn't know, or they would brew together. He had promised brewing of more Sober Up potion for Squiffy Mary Kelly.

And she had never helped brewing that before. And that was always exciting.

He kept the stool she stood on now always underneath the counter and she could always step on, though she disliked a lot of the people coming in.

And sometimes, but really only very sometimes, she wondered if there were no other children around. She never saw any.

But oh – Squiffy Mary Kelly gave her the money and there were two extra Sickles!

"Thank you, Squiffy!" she beamed and the nice lady patted her on the head and Ophelia skipped away. And of course Daddy was a bit, just a bit annoyed now. Annoyed was okay. Angry she had to look out for. Angry Daddy was bad and he would not bring her to bed if he was angry with her. True – it had only happened once or twice and not since before Christmas but she would miss the kiss he always pretended not to give her on her forehead just as he tucked her in.

Ophelia, that much she was sure of, never wanted to live somewhere else without her Daddy because she loved him and he loved her. Even if he didn't say so. But she knew.

She realised it every day, whether she slept in his bed or in her own, he would never ignore her in the mornings, he always made sure that she ate enough, that she was clean enough, that she picked the right book to take down to the apothecary with her, in case he brewed one of those potion that she wasn't allowed to help him with – and he even explained why every time, mostly because they were very dangerous and he had to cast Protective Charms over her, which tickled nicely – because some books could be boring after a while. He made sure she learned to read, and learned to brew a little. And yes, he always cuddled her. Brought her to bed.

She just loved her Daddy.

"Can we brew now, please?" she asked, looking up at him and he, as he usually did, grumbled a bit but almost immediately, pulled her stool out from underneath the counter and helped her step on it and moved instantly behind her so she could, for only a quick moment, lean against him.

"I love you, Daddy," she whispered just because she felt like it. And because she knew it would make him pull the fourth face. The happy face. Even if she couldn't see it, she knew it was there.

xx

It was not something he got used to lightly. On the contrary. Most of the time she said it, and she always said it at the weirdest moments, it surprised him, caught him on the wrong foot. Like just now. It had been different on Christmas when he had given her a few crayons, since she always seemed to draw with suds in the bath, and always traced the lines on the illustrations in their books – her books. Had given her room to work on the table, well, not really, he had just put his own papers together, had tidied a little and she had her place there anyway. If she wanted to draw, she could now. And he had given her a few, much needed clothes. A dress. He had half expected the I love you, Daddy then. Not now.

This was one of those occasions where he was completely taken by surprise.

He would probably get used to it. Like he had used to hearing Daddy come out of her mouth and realising that she meant him. Him a Daddy. Completely odd. But, he had gotten used to it. Maybe he would really get used to her telling him that she loved him. Even though the warm feeling in his stomach was not that uncomfortable any more. On the contrary.

Now – he – he knew that he had done some things right. She trusted him completely and she learned what he taught her willingly. She was utterly fascinated by all things concerning potions and books and she only ever wore black.

He had been against it – but – he had found out that when she made that special face – he stood no chance. He wasn't sure why. It was just a fact of life. Of their life now.

He had not changed much. His daily routine, well, no, not much. True, he didn't eat alone any more, and he ate healthier things, for her sake, he made sure to bring her to bed at night (a thing that he found painfully missing in all the memories he had viewed in the ridiculously expensive Pensieve – it was only just him, going to bed alone and he remembered feeling sad about that), to talk to her during dinner, asked her what she had seen during the day in the apothecary (finding out, rather, what she had learned from him), to help her bathe, to be there for her. Even if that included being cuddled by her, even if that included getting kissed by her.

And she had learned a valuable lesson just the other week. Never let anyone see your weaknesses. She was very ticklish (not unlike himself – she was his daughter after all) and he used this to his advantage. And she knew. He made it clear every day. Made sure to tickle her every day.

Even though he did quite enjoy it. Just hoped that she would never find out he had the same weakness.

"So you see? We put the tomato seeds in. As a whole."

"Why?" she asked in her usual way, not taking her eyes off the bubbling liquid in the cauldron.

"They would lose their potency when we cut them or dice them or put them in the mortar," he explained calmly. Tuesday. A quiet day. A day that could be spent brewing with her. So willing to learn. So interested. Always asking the right questions. And always leaning against him when there was a pause in their brewing. Always seeking contact.

"Like other seeds?"

"Exactly. For instance?"

"Pea seeds and poppy seeds and almond seeds and...I don't know any more."

"Quite sufficient," he said and put his hand on her shoulder. "Now stir fifteen times."

"Which direction?" she asked and he felt a sort of pride. She was not even five yet, but knew what counted.

"Clockwise," he replied softly and for a moment dared to look at her face. Very, very, very concentrated, her brows beetled together, her lower lip lodged firmly between her teeth.

"My my if that isn't Severus Snape and his famous daughter," a drawling voice came from the door.

"My my if that isn't Lucius Malfoy coming for his monthly potion that nobody is allowed to know about," he drawled back, sneering, and, unseen, put his hand on Ophelia's back. She had not yet seen Malfoy – had always been upstairs, send away in advance – and he could be a bit frightening. Even more so now.

"This is yours?"

"Does she look like mine?"

"Actually, yes. But I don't see a hint of the Mudblood Granger in there."

"Why should there be? Ophelia is mine," he replied evenly – hiding his surprise at the mention of Granger perfectly.

"The Daily Prophet, and various other newspapers and informants seem to think that this child," he sneered and stepped closer, "is yours and the Mudblood's."

"Is that so?"

"That is so."

"As far as I can remember, the Daily Prophet and various other newspapers and informants seem to think you're quite quite innocent and upstanding these days."

"Is that so?"

"That is so," Severus sneered again and he felt Ophelia trembling a little and her hand searching his. He offered it – and she took it immediately, holding it tightly. "Now, if there's nothing else? Would you like the potion? Ah – and, just to inform you, the price has gone up a little. But you can't expect, or can you?, such a potion to be cheap. After all, it is vital for you and since nobody but me can brew it to your _satisfaction, _solving your little problem to satisfy, and since I am the only one who will not run to the Daily Prophet or various other newspapers and informants, you do not have a choice but to pay, have you?"

Malfoy's façade slipped for a moment. "How much?"

"Well, since you believed me even willing to – well, share my bed with Granger, I'd say, for this month, 120 Galleons."

The façade stayed in place. The arrogant face all there. Unfortunately, Severus knew that the Malfoys had lost a rather massive amount of their fortune and as such, 120 Galleons were a lot of money for Lucius. As it was for most people. Still – he would pay. Perverted fantasies, desires that he needed to fulfil, and only could with the potion.

"My my, Snape, you are a businessman these days."

"I most certainly am," he sneered and squeezed his daughter's hand twice in quick succession. She would understand. She was his girl after all. "Either pay, or leave."

"She's a pretty little girl," he raised his eyebrows in silent threat and looked at Ophelia.

"You're problem is not so little, is it? And you're going through the vial rather quickly these days."

"120 Galleons," Lucius said and put the money on the counter. He had understood. Threat against threat. And he did not care enough about anyone to keep their secrets. No – Ophelia was his duty, his flesh and blood and it was her she needed to protect. No matter what the cost.

The two man nodded at each other and Ophelia once more held his hand a little tighter when Lucius looked at her again. "Pity everyone thinks it's Granger's and yours."

"Yes, pity. Especially since I remember quite clearly what you thought about Granger and what you would do with her, Lucius."

And with that, the tall, almost broke man was gone and Severus could not hide his smirk. He was his. Lucius did as he said. And he would most certainly not harm Ophelia. One thing less to worry about.

Though – what was that about Granger? The papers – and no, he did not read them – thought his brilliant daughter was his and hers? What utter rot.

"Daddy, who was that man? He frightened me."

"I know he did, Ophelia. But he cannot do anything."

"You promise?" she turned on her stool and looked at him, her chin pressed against his abdomen.

"I promise."

She nodded, hugged him around the middle (another thing he had almost gotten used to. Almost.) and obviously seemed to smile into his robes and he, well, it was what his mother had done, the Pensieve said, when he had been little, stroked her hair gently.

xx

"Rosie? Hugo? How do you feel about a little trip to London?"

Her children jumped up and down and shouted loudly yes yes yes and even though she would have preferred to have gone alone, she had no choice. Both her parents had work to do, Miss Breaze did not have time either, she was not currently on speaking terms with Molly Weasley, and Ron, as well as Harry and Ginny had all work to do. Only she had taken the day off. Needed to look at a few flats in London, needed to make sure that it wasn't him spreading the rumours.

Of course he didn't – he wasn't that stupid – but she just had to clear that up.

Him and Snape having a kid together – whoever had heard such an idiotic thing?

No, she would just be kinder and more polite than she had been. Would ask him if he thought it was better to ignore it – or to give a statement. He would probably not answer her – but, maybe, from his reaction, she could make a decision.

At least Ron did not believe that idiocy. And neither did Harry or Ginny. But there were a lot of people who apparently did. But actually, she did not like that kind of defamation of character. Her character. And that of Ron, and her children. Implying she had carried on with Snape all the time she had been married.

She knew though, that going there would probably only fuel the rumour mill. But it was worth the shot. And she could always get some ingredients while she was there.

"Okay, get ready then, we'll apparate in two minutes. To look at some flats and maybe an ice-cream at Fortescue's?" she grinned and looked after her children who tore upstairs, probably racing who was faster.

It would be fine. She could protect her children. Even in Knockturn Alley. And it was probably good for them to see that there were not only nice people in the world.

She would go and see Snape. With her children.

**_xx_**

**_I think I deserve extra-many reviews, please. Two chapters on one day, hey hey! ;) _**

**_Thanks for not hating the last chapter! Hope you like this just as much or more. Let me know, please._**


	13. Chapter 13

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked, looking over her shoulder into the cauldron. She always began that way when she had an important question.

"Why needs Squiffy always the potion in the morning?"

He knew the answer – and he could give her one in a sentence. Or maybe two. But it was no story to tell an almost five-year old. How did he explain that Mary Kelly, once a respectable woman working at the fashionable Finkle & Maurice in Dover – the biggest, most expensive Wizarding Department Store in all of Wizarding Britain. People went to Dover just to go to the food hall of Finkle & Maurice and Mary Kelly had been, for a while, Head of that Department. A good income, a, rumour said, happy family. A kind husband (working in the men's department of Finkle & Maurice), a son, a daughter.

Then her husband had died, untimely, aged 43, of a heart attack. And that had been the beginning of the end. The son just out of Hogwarts and the daughter in her final year. She had not coped well with the death of Joe Kelly and when people had thought that she was finally on her way to recovery about three years later, tragedy had struck again – and had killed her son and his Muggle wife in a car crash, as well as her daughter, being on a visit after three days in a coma. The Healers had not been able to help. And neither had the Muggle doctors.

That had broken her.

After that – Mary Kelly had become Squiffy Mary Kelly. Had lost her job, had gone to London, and by now, lived somewhere in the Alley. Worked, every morning, just after she got her Sober Up potion, at Borgin and Burkes as a cleaning lady. And spent her money on Firewhiskey.

He knew it was the wrong way to sell her the Sober Up potion cheaper than he normally would – but he did.

And Ophelia liked her. And was, naturally, curious.

"She lost her family," he said shortly and she turned around.

"Can't she find them any more? We have to help her look, Daddy."

He groaned inwardly. Of course she would misunderstand that. "No, Ophelia, she did not lose them, as in misplace them. They are gone where your mother is now."

"Dead?" she asked bluntly.

He nodded. "Yes."

"But why needs she the Sober Up then?"

He groaned again. Apparently, it wasn't so easy to make his child understand that losing someone's family could make people drink and drown in alcohol. "Ophelia, Squiffy Mary Kelly is very sad and the alcohol she drinks makes her forget."

"Why?"

"Because that is what alcohol is supposed to do. And because she cannot go to work drunk, she needs the potion."

"Can I get alcohol if I want to forget something?" she asked innocently.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so, Ophelia. Alcohol is not for children. And I do not drink either."

"Is there something you want to forget, Daddy?" she looked at him with her eyes large and gentle.

He frowned. Of course there was. Too many things – and those could not be drowned in Firewhiskey. Those things he wanted to forget could swim. And resurfaced stronger when he drank – he remembered more clearly. That was why he didn't do it. "I think there's something everyone wants to forget," he replied softly.

"Yes," she nodded with conviction. "I want to forget Madame Sylvie and the way her bed smelled and everything. And I want to forget that Mummy wasn't as nice as you are." She smiled gently and hugged him around the middle, her little arms pressing against his sides and he – admired – his daughter in that moment. She had understood it immediately. And – had been the very first person who had said the right thing.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her. Just holding his girl.

"You're my girl, Ophelia," he whispered gently and, because he couldn't help himself, lowered his face to her head and kissed her hair briefly.

xx

Every time – she swore – every time he said that she was his girl, she knew that he really meant that he loved her. He just had difficulties saying it.

But really, she had only said the truth. She wanted to forget that she hadn't always lived with him. He was nice. He loved her. Mummy had said it once in a while but she had never felt it. With Daddy, she never heard it but always felt it. That was the difference. That was why she loved her Daddy and why she wanted to forget about her life before he had come for her.

She looked up at him and his face was close to hers – he had – again – kissed her head. One of the things she loved as well about her Daddy. He never made a big spectacle about kissing her. He just did it. Simple. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek back, grinning. Then turning his head with her hands while he still hugged her.

"I love you too, Daddy," she whispered in his ear and was – strangely – rewarded with a tickle.

He tickled her now.

"That's unfair, Daddy," she shrieked and giggled. "I was nice and you tickle." She really wanted to say more – but he knew exactly – the meanie – how to tickle her and where and she couldn't really breathe because she had to laugh and giggle so much.

"Life is unfair, Ophelia," he drawled and didn't even stop tickling. He had that smirk on his face but she couldn't really see it clearly. Her eyes were almost completely closed because she was being tickled and she had to laugh and that made her close her eyes. Mean!

But it was nice because – well, he never tickled her in the apothecary and if she was being completely honest, she liked it when he tickled her. A bit.

Suddenly, he stopped and she was finally able to catch a breath – and saw why he had stopped. There was a woman – and Ophelia faintly remembered her. She had been there before.

But this time – there were to children with her. Children! So there were children in Knockturn Alley.

A boy and a girl. The boy was about as little as she was, the girl bigger. Older. And staring around the shop. Staring at the ingredients and vials that lined the walls – the dark wood shelves that were there. But the boy – the boy stared at her.

"Sit on your chair, please, Ophelia," she heard her daddy say and he used his professional voice. It was so much colder than what she was used to when he talked to her but she knew it. And she knew to obey it. She jumped off her chair and climbed on the chair, and, automatically, took the book. Daddy didn't like it much when he noticed that she was listening to what he was talking with the customers about. So – she always pretended to read or look at the pictures in a book. And listened then.

But this time, the boy's eyes followed her and she didn't understand what Daddy was talking about with that woman anyway. Something about papers and lies and Gryffindors.

Looking at the boy was much more interesting. He had red hair (she didn't think this was possible but apparently, it was) and blue eyes and grinned cheekily. Ophelia frowned.

Daddy said not to talk to strangers. Not as long as he didn't allow it and he also said not to interrupt him when he was talking to another adult. But was another child a stranger? Or even if the child was strange – wasn't it more important that it was a child? And Daddy said not to talk to strangers because they might be dangerous. How dangerous could another child be?

But technically, she didn't know the child. The boy. The girl was still staring at all the different things in the shop. She had done that as well but by now, she was used to it and Daddy had explained most of the things that were on the shelves. It was old news to her. But to stare so much? That was a bit much, probably.

The boy, still looked at her and took a step forward as soon as the woman, probably his Mummy, had let go of his hand and had moved to the other side of the counter, directly opposite Daddy. She tried to look down at her book – she really did – but the boy was much more interesting.

"Hullo," he said suddenly and she frowned a little more. She knew she looked a lot like Daddy when she did that (everyone said so) but she didn't mind.

So – that brought her, his hullo that was, back to her problem. Was a child she didn't know a stranger or just a child? Daddy had never said – so it was probably safe to talk to the boy. He couldn't really be angry with her if she did – he had never explained so she didn't know.

"Hello," she said back and looked back into her book.

"What's your name?" the boy asked and she looked up again immediately.

"Ophelia."

"I'm Hugo," he replied and kept in grinning. "Do you live here?"

Ophelia knew that especially those questions were dangerous. Or could be. Daddy had said. So she said nothing. Even though that was rude.

"I came here with my mummy. Is that your daddy? My daddy doesn't live with us any more. We live with grandma and grandpa now."

"My mummy is dead," Ophelia said – knowing that to tell this fact wasn't dangerous. Nobody could do things to her just because her mother was dead.

"What's dead?" the boy – Hugo – asked.

"It means, erm," she looked back into her book, then up at the ceiling, "that you're not here any more."

He nodded pensively. "Daddy lives in the house we used to live in."

She nodded back. And didn't know what to say.

"Is that your daddy?" he asked again. She knew he had asked before. But couldn't really decide whether to say yes or no. Or nothing. But then again, everyone already knew that Daddy was her daddy.

"Yes," she nodded a bit and spoke softly.

"He looks scary."

"He doesn't. He looks just like Daddy."

"But why is he wearing only black?"

"I wear only black," she argued. "Why you wearing only colours?"

"Mummy picked out my clothes this morning."

"Daddy lets me decide what to wear."

"I want to do that too but Mummy says I'm too young."

"Daddy never says that," she suddenly felt very proud of her daddy. He treated her like an older girl.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Almost five," she replied without thinking.

"I'm almost four. You going to kindergarten as well?"

"What's kindergarten?" she asked, the frown appearing on her face again.

"It's where you play and where you are in the mornings and sometimes in the afternoons," he explained and Ophelia felt a little put out. He was younger than she was and knew what a kindergarten is. And she didn't. But it sounded a lot like an apothecary. She played here. Well, brewed but that was like playing and she was there during the mornings and in the afternoons.

"Here's kindergarten," she replied.

"That's not a kindergarten."

"Why not?"

"There's no other children."

She shrugged – even though Daddy didn't like it but he was still talking to the woman. "It's kindergarten just for me. And Daddy plays with me every day."

"Oh," he said. "I want Mummy and Daddy to play with me every day as well but sometimes, they're busy."

"Oh," she replied and smiled at Hugo. Poor boy probably had a mummy and daddy just like her mummy had been. Poor Hugo.

xx

That was a sight she never thought she would see. Ever. In her life. And beyond that. Never. Really.

Severus Snape – tickling his daughter and almost smiling at her when she squealed and shrieked and giggled. It was something she had not expected.

And it shed a completely different light on the entire matter. On him. And his relationship to his daughter.

"Good day, Pro – erm, Mister Snape," she replied as kind as she could – and as hiding her surprise as best as she could.

"Good day," he replied back, his voice cold. As cold as she had known it and the slight smile, well, almost smile, had disappeared from his face immediately. "What can I do for you?"

"I came because of the allegations in the, erm, Daily Prophet," she replied evenly and felt very foolish for coming here. He had nothing to do with it and they could not change the fact what they wrote there. She was glad though, that she had at least cast a Disillusionment and a Notice-Me-Not Charm over herself and her children. "I do not know how they even had the idea."

"And you think I do?" he sneered.

"No, of course not," she replied immediately. "It's just that I cannot believe the lies they print."

"And one should think that you had experience with them printing lies," he arched an eyebrow.

"Erm, yes," she could not help feeling a little – well – flustered. It had been such a long time ago but that time had hurt just as badly. Or maybe even more. But that he remembered it – that much was – surprising. "So as long as you don't care, I mean..."

"Miss Granger – is it? - I do not believe you would care whether I care."

"Well, it's also your daughter that's concerned..."

"Ophelia is not allowed to read the newspaper," he replied sharply. "And she does not know what is printed about her."

"Of course not. I just wondered if you even know about it."

"I did."

"But you don't care," she snorted. "Of course not. But your daughter is in there as well. And you should probably..."

"Do not even think of finishing that sentence. Like your mother. The Gryffindorness of both of you," he drawled. "Interfering."

"Professor McGonagall said that you weren't here every time she tried to see you."

He smirked. "Is that so?"

"Yes," she understood. He had always paid attention to who was coming in. He was a good wizard – he had training for a long long time to react quickly. Only – she had taken him by surprise. He had been so busy fooling around with his daughter that he had not paid attention. And she had come in. With her children. And had seen him like probably nobody had seen him before. She still could not wrap her mind around it.

Severus Snape a loving father. A loving, sweet father.

"I'm sorry I came here," she said softly.

"Is there something you want to buy then?" he asked suddenly.

"Erm – that depends," she stuttered slightly. "How much is the Pepper Up today?"

He looked around – and she followed his glance. Her Rosie staring in wonder at all the things on the shelves, and her Hugo – talking animatedly to his daughter. Ophelia. Just like him to give his daughter the name of a mad suicide. Shakespearean mad suicide. Unhappily in love. To give her an unusual name.

"One Galleon and three Sickles," he replied evenly and she couldn't help but smile.

"What if I take five?"

"Then it's five times one Galleon and three Sickles."

xx

He would obliviate her – though – with her children there that might be difficult. Especially since the children could not be obliviated if he didn't want to risk them suffering brain damage. And they – while the offspring of two of the most annoying students he had ever had – were innocent. He would sell her the Pepper Up, she would go and probably the rumours and the things in the paper would disappear. Even though that seemed unlikely when she came out of his apothecary with her children.

"I suggest you do not come here again if you truly want those news in the paper to disappear."

She blushed a little. Just a tad, really. "It was quite impulsive of me," she chuckled. "But I cast charms over me and my children."

He nodded. "How many?"

"How many what?"

"Vials of potion?"

"Oh – erm, five, please. They will be good until...?"

"The end of the year," he replied and put five in a little carton and then on the counter.

And that, somehow, was the end of it. Even though Ophelia had talked to her son. And he had told her not to talk to strangers. Though – oh well – she never saw any other children and was probably just enjoying the first contact with one since she had come to live with him. He could not really blame her for that, could he?

He would have to find children to play with. Everything was better than have her have contact with a Weasley. True – he did not have anyone he could think of. Not a single person who had children that his daughter could play with. But he would figure something out. He had always done that.

Only – why had she come at all? To tell him what exactly? To achieve what exactly?

He looked at Ophelia, frowned – and, with a motion of his hand, just a simple motion, she understood and in a flash, she was standing on her stool again and they resumed their brewing.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you so much for all your reviews! You're the best!**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

Hugo frowned. He had liked Ophelia a lot. She was cute and nice and other than his sister Rosie, she talked to him. And the girls in kindergarten always played with dolls but Ophelia had held a book. Like Rosie but Rosie always read and shushed him and told him to be quiet but Ophelia had just looked up, and had talked to him.

Besides, she had a Daddy who always played with her.

How awesome was that?

He wished his daddy and his mummy had so much time for him to play with him. Or even Grandma and Grandpa. But all had to go to work all the time. The way Ophelia had explained, her daddy worked at the same time that she stayed with him. And he wanted to go to work with Mummy or Daddy. Just to see what they were doing. He knew Daddy was catching Dark and Evil Wizards and Mummy played with a lot of books and paper but what exactly they did – he wasn't sure.

He could ask Rose but then she always looked at him as if he should know. Though she probably didn't know herself.

Ophelia didn't know much herself and even though she had the book to look at, she had explained everything when he had asked – and when she had asked something, he had explained. Rosie never did that. She just made that face she did and walked away with her nose in the air.

At least he knew what Grandma and Grandpa did at work. They drilled holes into people's teeth and he thought that he wanted to do that when he was grown up. A dentist was a cool job. You could always see if people took good care of their teeth or if they didn't and if they didn't, you were allowed to make them better. Grandpa explained that tooth-ache was really, really bad (and Hugo knew that he wouldn't get it if he cleaned his teeth every night and every morning and after he had eaten something sugary) and Grandma and Grandpa made those people better.

Once, just once, he had tried one of the drill out and that had been amazing. It had bored a hole into Grandma's chair but she hadn't been angry.

But that wasn't that same as if he knew what Mummy and Daddy worked.

Besides – he missed his daddy. He didn't see him that often any more and when he did,, he was mostly sort of staring up in the sky or at him and Rosie and said things like: "I miss your mother."

Hugo didn't know what that meant. Of course he missed Daddy but he wasn't allowed to go there on his own, even if he did have a fight with Rosie or if Mummy and Grandma and Grandpa did not have time to read to him or play with him. No, he always had to wait until someone brought him to Daddy or if he picked him up.

But Daddy was allowed to go out on his own, so if he missed Mummy, he could just come and talk to her, couldn't he?

Grown-ups didn't make sense. Though Ophelia had said that her daddy made a lot of sense. That he always made a lot of sense – and Hugo thought he did. Because it really did make sense to take his Ophelia to work every day and let her play there.

He really wished, his parents would do something like that.

Not every day, but they could switch, couldn't they? Mondays, Tuesdays together with Mummy and Wednesdays, Thursday, Fridays catching Dark Wizards with Daddy. Or maybe Monday with Grandma, Tuesday with Grandpa, Wednesday with Mummy and Thursday and Friday with Daddy. That would be cool. And he bet Rosie would be happy with that. That way, she could read all day long and he wouldn't once ask her if she'd like to play with him.

Or – he would just ask Mummy. Maybe Mummy allowed him to go to Ophelia's. It was unfair to have a kindergarten all to oneself, wasn't it? He had to share his kindergarten with about a thousand or so other children (maybe not a thousand, but Thirteensevensixtyhundred) and she had one all to herself.

That wasn't fair.

And he could play with her Daddy a little as well. And with Ophelia. He liked Ophelia.

xx

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Ophelia?"

"Who was that boy?" she asked.

Hugo had been really nice and he had been so curious, like herself and had actually dared to ask some question. Some – she had answered – some – she hadn't. It just wasn't right to tell everything right away. He didn't have to know everything. And she wasn't sure what he would tell his parents and she didn't like them a lot.

They left him alone!

And that was the unfairest thing she could imagine. Daddy didn't leave her alone at all. Only when she slept and even then she knew that she could always come to him. That he always had room in his bed for her. She had it better than Hugo and that poor boy had to go to some place where he had to share his toys. That was so unfair. And he didn't even know where his parents worked. And had to share them with his sister.

She had it so much better. She didn't have to share her daddy with anyone. He was just hers, just as she was just his.

"He was a Weasley," her daddy answered and it was his cold voice. Though why, he didn't know.

"What's a Weasley?"

"That's his last name."

"Like mine is Snape?"

"Yes."

"Mh," she said and looked up at him over her plate full of sprouts. She did not like sprouts. They were round and green and didn't taste good. She scratched her chin and frowned and while he looked at his food.

"What is it you are thinking about?" he asked in that silky soft voice of his and she knew he had caught her. Again. Daddy always caught her when she was trying to ask him – or tell him – something but she wasn't sure how. Usually, she had found out, it was better to just say it. Make that face and look in his eyes (that was important!) and ask.

"Hugo," she replied simply and looked at him – but he didn't look up.

"And?"

"Can he come and play with me?"

"No."

"Why not? He's so poor. His parents never play with him and he is my friend."

"You only just met him," he looked at her now and had this little line between his eyes.

"He's still my friend and I want to play with him. Please."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Daddy! I want to," she said louder. He had never not said no to something.

"Ophelia, no!"

"You're mean!" she cried and, to escape him and his angry face and his angry voice – and the sprouts – she ran from the table. And into her room. She wanted to play with Hugo and he didn't even listen to her.

That was mean!

xx

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Hugo?"

"Can we go to Ophelia tomorrow again? She had a kindergarten all to herself and you always say people should share," he tried to make his face look as innocent and as pleading and then remembered, suddenly, the magic word. "Please?"

"Who?" she asked, looking up at him from a stack of papers. "Oh, Ophelia. Snape's daughter. No, Hugo."

"Why not?"

"Because she's no playmate for you."

"Why not?"

"Because she lives to far away."

"Why?"

"Because this is where she lives."

"No, why is it far away? We didn't walk far this morning. And you can appartarte."

"Apparate, Hugo and it's too far."

"But I want to play with Ophelia. She's my friend," he begged. "Please?"

Mummy pushed a bit of hair away from her face and when she did that, she usually was either angry or annoyed or tired. She didn't look tired. But he wasn't sure whether she was angry or annoyed. "Please?" he asked again.

"No, Hugo. And apothecary is not a place to play anyway."

"You never take me to work!" he complained.

"Work is not somewhere where children play," she explained slowly.

"But Ophelia's is allowed to play where her daddy works," he pushed his lower lip forward and – pouted.

"Ophelia is different and Ophelia's father is different. You're not allowed to go there to play and that's the final word. Understood?"

So she was angry. But he could be angry too!

"But I want to go there!" he cried and stomped his foot on the ground. That helped. Sometimes.

"No."

"But I want to!"

"No!"

"I want to!"

"Go to your room," she said, her voice louder than usual.

He just looked at her angrily. And then, ran into his room – hoping that Mummy would change her mind (or that Daddy would take him eventually) – and, that Rosie would not send him out again because he was too loud when she wanted to read.

He wanted to throw himself on his bed and be angry for a while.

_**xx**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

"You're mean!" she said and ran off. For the first time, she had run away from him. Just like that. Had just not accepted his no and had run away. And it had made him swallow, had made him feel weird, had made him – he didn't know. He wanted to get up, wanted to go after her and tell her that she could have everything in the world but not the meeting with a Weasley but he was rooted to the spot, staring at his sprouts, his meat and he looked then at her plate. Almost untouched.

Why couldn't she have waited with her bloody question until she had finished her meal? Didn't she understand that he could not let her play with just anyone?

Granted, not that Hermione Granger's and Ronald Weasley's children were, what decent people thought, not just anyone – but he lived in a different world.

After the War, more than ever before, there was a clear distinction between decent folk – and not so decent folk. Two sides – those that had come out of the War with their reputation intact, like the Weasleys, Potter, some Order of the Phoenix Members – and those – whose reputation had suffered. His. His neighbours. Plenty more he knew. Not that he cared or minded. He had made his living from those whose reputations had suffered as well. And a good life it was.

But one side did not mix with the other. It just wasn't done. Hence, the big scandal about him and Granger in the papers. If it was a big scandal. He wasn't sure. But she couldn't really be interested in being brought into contact with the likes of him.

And why – apart from the fact that he did not like either Granger or Weasley – he could not let her play with their children.

But how to explain that to his child?

And she was angry with him.

She had never been angry with him. Scared – he could understand. Afraid, yes. He was that sort – but angry?

A lot of people had been angry with him over the years. He couldn't even count how many – but never her and that was a strange, unknown feeling. Something, he could not ever remember feeling. A sort of pressure on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. Well, not difficult, but it wasn't as easy as it should have been. As it had been minutes ago when she had talked about the fact that she did not like sprouts because they were green and round and that she had recognised the word 'daisy' on one of his jars in the shelves. She had grinned and smiled and had speared a sprout on her fork and had then asked.

Silly girl.

What was he supposed to have said?

'Yes, darling Ophelia, you may go and play with Hugo Weasley turning the Wizarding World upside down?'

As if.

He did not call anyone by other than their name.

She was scandal enough – not that she knew – by just being the offspring of Severus Snape.

He knew – exactly – what people were thinking about him. People were thinking of him as an apothecary. Someone who had no private life. People had always thought that he had none. Years ago, he had been spying and teaching. And that had been it. Now, he apparently was brewing and selling the potions. And that was it.

Only, it wasn't.

Ophelia was the best example that it wasn't. And as such, a sort of scandal – keeping everyone interested. That was also, why his sales had gone up 45% in the last three months. But have also been that the Pepper-Up-Shortage was responsible for that. He didn't mind.

It was all in a vault at Gringotts. For Ophelia. For her future.

And now she was angry with him.

And he remembered.

His father – he had always said no. No to everything. As far back as he remembered. Later, he had not cared, later he had learned not to pay attention. Later, he had just left the house and had hidden somewhere outside. But before that?

He had not been angry when his father had forbidden him something. Well, maybe a bit angry – but the same part was disappointment. Maybe even more disappointment than anger.

Not being allowed what he truly, he truly had wanted. Even if it was something like going to the zoo. Something he had always wanted to...

He sighed.

Severus Snape did not want to be like his father. He did not want to be his father. He would make it differently – act differently.

He remembered a pale little boy, sitting on his bed, trying hard not to cry, failing, because Father had said no when he had wanted to pick a few herbs from outside. Just herbs for Mother to cook with. No potions because Father disliked magic. Because Mother had explained about magic but had broken her own wand. And she couldn't even show him magic.

He had done magic – and Father had kicked him and had almost used his belt. Only Mother had interfered and he couldn't.

Though, the little pale boy did know that getting the belt was a lot simpler than having to hear Mother cry and scream and Father grunting.

Once, once, he had tried to stop it. And something really strange had happened. The door to their bedroom had burst open and Father had flown from the bed into the wall.

And Mother had told him to hide in his own room and to be quiet and not to listen. And he had listened to her and – had heard more screams and more crying. Until he had put his fingers in his ears. Because Mother had said so.

Severus Snape shook himself. No, he would not end up like his father. Not like the despicable, evil man. Not like the man that had violated his mother. Not like the man that had, indirectly, killed his mother.

His father, he was sure of it, would not even consider going to see his child in a situation like that. And he would make the opposite.

He got up and cast a Warming Charm on her plate. She would eat those sprouts, no matter if she liked them or not. They were good for her health. And – he would take her to the zoo – her very first visit, his very first visit. Not have her sitting in the apothecary every day, all day long.

And he would – and if it killed him – console her now, hug her. No matter what. She deserved that. Even if he did say no to playing with Hugo Weasley.

xx

"Hermione? Your son's upstairs crying," Judith Granger stepped into the living room – the room that her daughter mostly used to work in.

"I forbid him something," she said tiredly. "And he's probably just mad at his evil mother."

Jude knew when Hermione was in a mood like that. She had had it more often in the last few weeks. The divorce was almost final – and the children had listened but at least Hugo had not understood the concept of divorce and asked – often – for his father. And Ronald couldn't always come, couldn't always make the time and Hermione, simply, felt guilty. Understandable. Completely, utterly comprehensible.

"Oh dear," she said softly and put a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"I went to see Snape today," she looked up and her eyes looked a little glassy.

"Snape? That dreadful man?"

"Him," she snorted.

"Because of those things in the paper?"

"Yes, of course," she sighed. "But it wasn't a big deal, really. He didn't care, he thinks he can protect his daughter from the gossip..."

"Well, his daughter does not have Molly Weasley as a grandmother," Jude replied coldly. This woman had another thing coming for talking to her grandchildren like that. For telling their grandchildren that they had another sister. And for not believing Hermione. Clearly not thinking, that woman.

"True," Hermione looked at her a little sadly and rested her head – as she had done as a girl – against her stomach and Jude ran her hand through her girl's hair and brushed her cheek.

"You have a fever," she said suddenly, feeling her burning up.

"No, I'm freezing," Hermione blinked up. Then, suddenly, coughed.

"Up to bed, child. I'll be there with the thermometer in a moment," she said, commandingly and looked sternly.

"Mum! No," her daughter argued.

"Hermione. To bed or at least the couch. We'll take your temperature and then we'll see."

Hermione – grumbled but moved to the couch and fell down there tiredly.

xx

There had been a tickling in her throat a few days ago. A bit of cough but she had a potion for that and had taken it. The nose, well, potion that had helped. Sort of. But she had not really expected a fever. And she didn't have a fever.

Definitely not.

Until her mother had put the thermometer into her mouth and the little digital one had shown her 39.3°C. And that was a fever. No doubt about that. Especially after she had not believed her mother and had taken her temperature again. Even though – it was the evening and it would probably be lower in the morning.

But still – she was sick. And that was so inconvenient. Especially at the moment.

She was supposed to sign her divorce papers at the end of the week and she had to go there.

And yet – there was something – cosy, something nice – about her mother bringing her tea to the couch, tucking her in, pressing a kiss on the hot forehead and sitting beside her for a moment, brushing her hair from her face.

"My poor girl," she said softly. "You should have said something sooner."

"I'm not feeling that bad," she argued. "It's just a bit of cough and sneezing."

"I never heard you cough."

"I took a potion," Hermione replied tiredly. "For the throat and the cough and the nose."

Jude rolled her eyes. "Without telling someone something?"

"I'm alone now, aren't I?" she sat up slightly.

"Right," she said gently. "You're not. Your father and I want to know and you know that. Just because you're not married any more does not mean that there's nobody left."

"But I have to be strong for my children," she croaked suddenly. Potion wearing off.

"No, you don't," her mother replied and took her in her arms. "You are still Hermione. No matter if your last name is Weasley or Granger. You don't have to be strong for them. We're still here for you and for them. Don't forget that, alright?"

She shook her head tiredly. "I won't," she replied and let herself be hugged.

xx

She sat in her bed – and again, Severus Snape had a vision of a pale little boy sitting on a bed, just like she was at that moment, in his head.

"I didn't say no because I do not want you to play with children," he explained softly and – sat down on the bed, looking at her. He owed her something. Something he had never received from his parents. Neither from his mother nor from his father. He owed her honesty. Honesty he had wanted all his life – and had only rarely received. "Hugo's parents and I, Ophelia, we are no friends."

She looked at him quizzically. "Does that mean I cannot be friends with Hugo?"

"If you want to play with other children, you should say so," he answered. "But I am not even sure whether Hugo's parents would allow you to play with him."

"Why not? I'm not a stealer or a liar," she said suddenly, viciously.

"Of course you're not," he looked at her and saw her confusion and wished he could make it simpler for her. But her life would be anything but. And that wasn't even her fault. Not her fault at all and he felt for his girl. For his little girl. His own Ophelia. "And it has nothing to do with you, my girl, it's because of me."

"Why, Daddy?" she asked and rubbed a bit left-over tear away.

"Because..."

"Is it because Hugo said that you look scary?" she interrupted and looked so innocent.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek – another generation of Weasleys thought he looked scary. Wonderful! And this was the simple answer. "Yes," he replied. "Sometimes, people believe what they see and not what is true..."

"Like people don't like Squiffy because she's sad and has to take alcohol because she is sad and wants to forget?"

"Yes," he nodded and on impulse, he pulled his daughter on his lap, kissed the top of her head and held her. "Are you still angry with me?" he asked – and, immediately, his heart seemed to stop.

This – no – he had not meant to say this out loud. He had not meant to say it at all. No, she wasn't supposed to know that he thought about it, that he cared what...

No.

This had not been the plan. She was his duty, his daughter, he had to feed her, clothe her, probably give her a few hugs because apparently children needed this but soft, tender feelings towards her had never been on the agenda.

Even though – if he wanted to do the exact same opposite of what his parents had done – he would have to love her.

And, he groaned inwardly, it was too late for that anyway. He loved that girl already. He knew. Just knew. And that was – not as bad as he had imagined.

"I'm not angry with you, Daddy," she said gently and snuggled closer and he had his arms tightly around her and held her.

"Would you like to go to the zoo tomorrow?" he asked suddenly.

She looked up. "What's zoo?"

He smirked and kissed her forehead gently – the second kiss within two minutes and he did not mind. No. He didn't. "We will go to the zoo tomorrow and see some real animals," he replied – not answering her question. He would make it a surprise. A, he hoped, nice surprise.

_**xx**_

_**Let me know what you think about that, please!**_

_**Personal A/N: A lot of you asked how my date went – well, to be frank, I am not sure. We will see. It was the first time I've seen this guy since school (back in 2001) and we met at six and I got home at 12. And those six hours just flew by, so it was a success but if anything comes of it (or if I want anything to come of it), I do not know. **_

_**TMI?**_


	16. Chapter 16

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He actually had to transfigure clothes. While he had ventured into the Muggle World on a more or less regular basis (every other month, probably) before Ophelia had come to live with him (he did not now), he had never seen the need to wear any special clothes. There really was no need – since he had always gone at night. And people roaming those streets he had during those nights when he had been there as well, did not pay attention to what was on his back. And those people who should have paid more attention to it – well, they probably thought him eccentric. And that he could jolly well live with. And them too. Since he had money.

But going to the zoo with his daughter – no, he would have to at least look normal. The trousers and shirt were alright – but not the robes and not the frock coat. As well as Ophelia's. Her skirts and jumpers were alright but the robes had already been transfigured into a neat, little black coat.

That left his clothes. He shortened the frock coat, turned it almost into a jacket and turned his robes into a coat, double-breasted, with silver buttons and deep pockets and long sleeves that reached over his knuckles. He stored his wand into the sleeve and, risked a last glimpse into the mirror. It almost looked – military with the long, heavy, woollen double-breasted coat that hung to his knees. And not that different from his frock coat – just a little less dramatic.

It would have to do, he thought to himself and made his way to her room.

"Are you ready?" he looked inside where she sat on her bed, dangling her legs.

"Can't close buttons," she said softly and stared at her shoes. The silver-buckled snake-shoes again. She loved those but it was raining, it was cold. And those were probably not the right ones. He himself wore heavy dragonhide-boots, charmed to look like normal leather.

"Please change your shoes, it's cold outside," he said and moved to her wardrobe.

"You use wand and keep shoes dry," she replied with a sort of disarming logic. Only, he wasn't sure how well he could use charms in a zoo. Even if it was drizzly and probably a lot of people just stayed indoors. He had even even found an old umbrella, had fixed it and had transfigured another, smaller one for her.

"We can't Ophelia," he explained slowly after he had found her boots in her cupboard. "We're going to Muggle London to the zoo. There are no Wizarding zoos."

"And they can't do magic and we have to hide that we can," she repeated what he had told her.

"Exactly," he looked at her and felt – pride. She was truly bright and listened to him when he spoke. How many people had done that in the past?

She nodded and with a sigh, slipped out of her favourite shoes and, when he put the boots in front of her bed, into them.

"Can you tie your shoes?" he asked, towering over her and when she shook her head, with a pitiful expression, he knelt down on the carpet that he had put in that room when she had moved into it, a warm, thick, beige carpet, and looked up at her for a moment. "Watch," he said and when she focused on him with the laces in his hand, he began to tie them, explaining with few words what he was doing. There would be another time to teach her but he would – definitely – enjoy this day with her. The whole day. He had given Squiffy Mary Kelly her dose, then had closed up the shop and had breakfast with Ophelia – and now, he was ready to go. Almost.

"Stand up," he said softly and when she stood straight in front of him, he straightened on his knees and helped her into the coat, incidentally, almost a mini-copy of what he was wearing, double-breasted with silver buttons. She looked, he had to admit quite sweet. Not a word he would have ever used. Before he had his daughter with him. But she did. Sweet. Nice. Freshly bathed from the night before, her hair, even a little wavy, falling over her shoulders and her eyes – he was always amazed by those eyes. As dark as his, shaped like his, but so trusting and full of love for him. He could see that.

Plain as day.

"How do I look?" she asked with a little grin playing on her lips and he arched his eyebrows.

"Adequate," he said – his tone gentle and she understood, and while he was still kneeling, pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"What is zoo?"

"Patience, Ophelia," he admonished and, picking her up, apparated both of them away.

xx

If there was one thing she utterly disliked about living with her Daddy, it was the way how he brought her somewhere. They never used the bus or the Tube but instead, they apparated (she had practised until she could say it) and that always made her tummy ache and feel weird. And she always had to breath in the lovely scent of his neck for a while before she could stand on her own. And now, that she didn't know where she was, she certainly did not want to walk on her own.

No, she wanted to feel his arms around her and hold her tight and wanted to wrap herself around him. At least until she knew where they were and what exactly a zoo was.

She did not for the life of her remember if anyone had ever talked about it before. Until Daddy had mentioned it. And yes, she was curious but also, a tiny bit afraid.

She felt him walking and slowly, looked up. And stared straight into a strange face of someone sitting in a little booth.

"Hiya," the strange man said. "A child and an adult?"

"Yes," her daddy said in his mean voice and gave the strange man some notes.

"Here's your plan. Enjoy!"

Daddy only nodded and – walked off.

"This the zoo?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," he replied and sounded gentler. "And look, over there, there are some gorillas."

"Gorillas?" she asked.

"Apes, Ophelia," he explained gently and set her on her feet and she took his hand immediately. She still did not quite understand what a zoo was but if there were apes – that was wonderful. She liked apes. She liked snakes more, and she liked giraffes and kangaroos and turtles and she loved her three-headed dog but apes were quite interesting, too.

"Are there more animals here?" she asked, tugging on his hand, looking up at him.

"Yes. A zoo is full of animals. That's the purpose of a zoo," he explained.

"Really?" she asked and because she wanted to, and because she knew that it would magic that fourth face on his face, she bounced and skipped and jumped. And she was happy. Full of animals? Wow. Some, most, she had only ever seen in books. Apes! Maybe even snakes. Maybe even kangaroos. Maybe even giraffes!

"Are there snakes?" she asked innocently and suddenly, his face was quite dark.

"Yes," he grumbled.

"Daddy, you don't like snakes?" she asked and did not notice that he kept on walking, with her glued to his hand.

xx

She sneezed. And she disliked sneezing. She disliked her clogged up nose, she disliked the raspy feeling in her throat, she disliked the fact that she wheezed when she breathed and she disliked most that her mother had threatened with the doctor. She did like the fact that her mother mothered her.

She had not had that since – since she had left for Hogwarts. No, really. During Hogwarts, Poppy Pomfrey had taken care of all her sicknesses and for the breaks, she had taken the right potions with her, if she had spent them with her parents. If she didn't – well, her two best friends back then had been boys. One of them ignored all his sicknesses and was mothered by Hermione because she couldn't stand the sight of Harry sniffing and the other was a true man when it came to profane sicknesses like colds. He whined, he complained, he almost lay dying, every time a cough hit him. And if he had a fever – he requested parchment to write his last will.

No, true, Ron had since she had known him, been a baby when it came to sickness. And it had been worse when they had been married. He was used to his mother. And Molly Weasley was someone who mothered even worse than Judith Granger. Everything was done for a sick child of hers. No matter how old it was. And it had been even more so after Fred had died. Even though – she wasn't so sure about that.

Molly Weasley did everything for her young.

And Hermione? She had taken to being pregnant badly. Morning sickness had been All-Day-Sickness. She had discovered that being green in the face could really mean being green in the face. Not only a figure of speech. And what had Ron done?

Nothing.

No, that wasn't true.

He had told her that it would be over after nine months.

Fat load of good that was.

Once, once, she had been even sicker than she was now. She had not been able to talk at all.

Hugo had been two and Rosie three and a half. Both not in kindergarten yet. And she had not been able to do anything. Except lie on her couch. Ronald Weasley had gone to work and Molly, oddly enough, had told her that if she did not get along in her household, she should get an house elf. She had chucked potion after potion until she had been at least able to cook meals for her children.

She did not want to remember. Did not want to remember the pain that Ron had brought her then. Did not want to remember Molly's mean-spirited rebuff. Did not want to remember how rotten she had felt.

Now – that was completely different.

Maybe, maybe her mother felt the same way she did at the moment. That she missed the mothering, that she missed the loving embrace and the tender kissed on the feverish foreheads. She had, painfully, listened to Ron when it had come to their respective parents and, despite the fights, going back to her parents had been the best, the sanest decision of her life. The one that made her feel loved again.

What had that been? You're important, you're strong, Hermione. No matter what your last name might be. You're our our daughter. You will always remain my little girl.

And her father – I love you, my girl. You can stay here as long as you like and your mother will cancel some appointments. You concentrate on getting better.

And – she knew – this was not only about her flu. It was about her. About her working too much because she could not forget about Ron, about working too much because Hugo had let it slip that Ron said that he missed her a lot. Because she worked too much because Rosie had cried the other night because she missed her father.

"You think too much," a gentle, so familiar voice came from the door. She had put up camp on the large, comfy couch in the living room. She had always, even as a child, disliked being cooped up in her room when she was sick. She still did, she found. Looking up, she looked into the smiling face of her father. It was Daddy. No matter how old she was, or he was, it would always be Daddy. The one who always listened. The one who was always there. The one who was so patient.

"I know," she rasped and coughed and he moved quickly to her side.

"We didn't have the time and the opportunity to care for you for a long time," he said gently, sitting on the edge of the couch and pulled the blanket that covered her up to her chin. The way he had done it when she had been little.

"I know," she replied back.

"You have to allow your mother to fuss over you."

"I will," she smiled and lifted her arms, stretched them out, towards her father. Wanted to be hugged. Wanted to be taken into his arms. He bent down with a smirk and wrapped her into his arms.

"You'll always be my little Hermione," he whispered into her ear. "You'll always be my girl, and I'll always love you."

She sighed and had to blink to keep the tears at bay. This was her family. The family that would never let her down.

xx

He watched her in, more or less, astonishment. She tugged on his hand constantly, never letting go, stared in wonder at the animals and he had to admit to himself that he did the same.

Her question whether he liked snakes – she had understood his answer.

"Not any more," he had said, without any further explanation. And she had nodded and didn't ask any more. This was his little girl. She was happy with that answer.

Actually, she usually was satisfied – as long as she did get an answer. But probably, she already knew him. She already understood, and saw, that he did not want to answer more precisely. Maybe she had learned to read his face – something that everyone else failed at.

She tugged on his hand again, staring at a herd of meerkats. "Look, there's the daddy," she said pointing at a special one, standing close to a baby-meerkat. "And that's the daughter-meerkat. He takes care of his girl like you are."

He bit his lip. Yes. Oh, yes, he loved that girl.

This day had shown it. Her inquisitiveness, the quiet curiosity, the quiet asking, the soft noises she made when she saw an animal she liked (and he had noted them all), the huge eyes she had, the wonder, the surprise, the happiness. The wonderful happiness.

He knew he was responsible. And he was only responsible because he loved that girl. Because he loved his daughter above anything.

He loved her more than brewing potions, more than his apothecary, more than his flat, more than any book in the world.

She had shown him.

That day at the zoo – it had opened something inside of him. Something he did not understand but something that he knew would make a difference in their lives.

She had stared so curiously and had asked questions and had trusted him and hadn't once let go of his hand. She believed what he was saying. Without a doubt.

And Ophelia Snape did manage to make him go into the Reptile House of London Zoo – and, with her hand firmly in his, she had said, "You don't have to be afraid, Daddy, they're behind glass," and he had seen snakes. For the first time, since Nagini, he had seen a live snake.

And those were beautiful creatures.

He would tell her – eventually – that he had almost lost his life because of one of those animals. He would tell her all about his life. Well – most of it anyway. But in that moment, he had not been afraid, not stiff, nor had felt anything else but wonder at the sight of a Burmese Python. It was indeed a beautiful creature. And he wondered, briefly, whether a pet snake wouldn't be the right gift for Ophelia. For her fifth birthday.

It would help him. And she would be over the moon.

And making her feel over the moon – apart from clothing her, feeding her, and caring for her, was his job now.

The realization hit him hard.

She loved him.

And if he wasn't as stupid as his own parents, she would love him until the day he died.

Love.

Love him.

Love him, Severus Snape.

And he loved her. Above anything else. More than anything else.

No, he acted on impulse and he knew that nobody knew him. Nobody would ever know.

He picked his Ophelia up, just picked her up and held her close and kissed her forehead, then her hair.

"Thank you for bringing me," she said softly. "It's wonderful."

"Thank you, Ophelia," he whispered. "I love you."

She grinned broadly at him, kissed his cheek wetly and spoke, then, into his ear. "I love you, too, Daddy."

_**xx**_

_**Eurgh – more sugary sweetness. I am sorry. **_

_**Well, review, please, if you found it revolting, or if you didn't or if you liked it, or if you didn't. Just let me know, I need the feedback. **_

_**Oh – the mailing list is still active – if you want to be put on it, drop me a note (PM or email – both fine with me). And if there are mistakes in there, I think I might be a tiny bit drunk (I am watching Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in Dutch at the moment and I don't speak a word of Dutch)...**_

_**Oh – one more thing: I thank you very much, from the bottom of my heart, for liking my writing. It means a lot to me. More than you can imagine!**_


	17. Chapter 17

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

_**A quick note beforehand: **_

_**Please see the end of last chapter as a sort of end of act I (I do not know, so please don't ask, how many acts there will be. We'll see). The persons are introduced, we have the first major step, and now it's time to move on in the story. **_

_**xx**_

Severus Snape was a man who believed that knowledge was power. Years and years of spying had thought him the fact that really, those who knew – were powerful – and that this often used, quite worn-out adage was completely true.

Power not in the sense, of course, of ruling over people (since he did not know how much knowledge a Muggle dictator had – or who much knowledge either Grindelwald, the evil one beginning with V, or any other Dark Wizard who had, for a while, thought to rule over the Wizarding World had), but certainly in the sense of being always a step in front of others, knowing more, and, most importantly, knowledge brought one power over oneself.

Knowledge, in his books, was the only thing worth acquiring. With knowledge, all kinds of knowledge, one could achieve a great many things. And knowledge was the one thing he was adamant on giving his daughter.

During the time she had come to live with him, she had learned to read a little, had learned a little maths (though it was mostly still counting with her fingers), she had learned to brew a little, understood the bare basics of interaction between herbs and had learned to count money. Had learned how to eat properly, and had learned how to tie her shoelaces.

And yet, he knew that this was not enough. And so, after their visit to the zoo, he had made a decision. She would learn about Muggle culture. Her, the daughter of a halfblood, a halfblood herself had every right to know which customs, which traditions, her ancestors had celebrated. At least part of them – but since they were living in the Wizarding World (and Squffy Mary Kelly was teaching her how to whistle), she was slowly getting used to them anyhow.

No, it was museums, galleries, even, later, when she was a little older, maybe, the theatre, that he knew she should learn about. Just to know more than either the purebloods, or the muggleborns who were the same age. She needed to know about both.

So – he had made it a point of closing his apothecary one day a week, usually Tuesday or Wednesday and took her too Muggle London. Once a week, they made a day of it (and if he was being honest, he enjoyed those days just as much as she was – probably even more) and so far, four weeks, they had been to the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, the Tower, Tate Britain, and St Paul's Cathedral. He had explained all he knew, had even read up on most things, and she had listened the way she usually did – quietly, asking when necessary, inquisitive, curious, calm.

His daughter. She learned – and he enjoyed seeing her learning.

xx

It was final. It was over. It was – just the way it was. She was no longer married – now, she was single mother. 32, living with her parents. Miss Granger again.

She had made herself sick, her cold had lasted two weeks, the underlying cough was only now ebbing away and she was more than grateful that she had her two little ones. They helped. Even if they did not know they did. Those two – cuddling with her more than ever – they that their Mummy wasn't as well as she usually was and they did their best to cheer her up (though she wasn't sure how she felt about this picture, or rather the collage, they had made – it wasn't only the pasta painted with gold-colour but also the banana-peel and bits of apple that were on it).

But – it was enough. Enough wallowing, enough pitying, enough of being mollycoddled by her parents. She needed a flat for her and Rose and Hugo and she needed it soon.

And – she needed it in London. The Muggle part. She did want to choose – and her children, well, they should learn about both worlds. Understanding that their heritages were quite different, understanding that they were basically, halfbloods.

Hence – Muggle London it was. And she had pre-picked a few flats. And was quite certain she would make her move, find the right place, that day.

She had said good bye to her children, and to her parents, and had apparated away. Straight into the heart of London. Well, not quite the heart – she could not afford the heart at all.

Not that she didn't earn enough – but London was expensive. Very much so and she needed at least two bedrooms – one for each child – even if she could sleep in the living room.

Oh well, she would see. And in the meantime, she was intent on enjoying the city, the people in it, and the way to her first appointment at the first flat. Even if it was in Putney.

She strolled almost leisurely down the street, staring up the houses, into the shop windows and knew that she was nowhere near where she should be. But she had time. She would take the Tube. Or a bus. No, rather the Tube – if it was working.

And – she had her mother's mobile with her and the number of the landlord in her handbag. She would phone if she was late.

But to be truthfully, completely honest, this was the first day in months that she was completely on her own – and not thinking about Ronald and her failed marriage. No. She enjoyed the streets, enjoyed seeing the poor sods in their suits rushing past her to get to work on time, paper coffee cups in one hand, laptop bags slung over a shoulder, a tiny earpiece – from the mobiles – lodged firmly into place. And while she knew the Muggle world well (and really should be getting her own laptop and mobile), she still found it funny that people were seemingly talking to themselves, arguing with themselves.

A young man, teen years younger than herself, begging someone not to go somewhere. And then walking past quickly.

A woman quite a lot older than herself telling someone (or herself – one never knew these days) that Peaches (the names some people had...) was back in rehab.

A woman her age, explaining where the cold remedy was and that Heidi hated tea with honey.

It was – quite, quite funny.

An old man, gesturing so wildly that a bit of coffee spilt over, telling himself (or someone) that she (whoever that was) was most certainly anorexic and should be put into an institution.

No, Hermione Granger had all the time in the world and she intended to make the best of it. She spotted one of those coffee-shop-chains and, having learned from her mother how to order, walked out with a simple, black coffee only about five minutes later (and what in the name of all that's holy was a grande skinny coffee mocha two extra shots? - she had definitely spent too much time in the Wizarding World only) and sat down on one of the small tables outside.

She had not watched normal people for a long time. Had always something else to do. Had always her children to think of.

Rosie, who was getting quieter and quieter and read too much and spent time playing scrabble with her grandfather. That girl was too much like her and yet, sometimes, at night, she padded into her own bed and snuggled up to her and sometimes, Hermione caught her trying to hide her tears.

Or Hugo – who was still sometimes asking after playing with Ophelia, and more often asked to see his Daddy and...

No. Stop. This was her day. For once trying at least not to worry about them too much. They would be fine. They would see their father as often as his time and hers allowed it and oh well. No, it was just not the time to think about that.

She wanted to make fun, secretly, in her head, about those people there. Just because she could.

xx

"Daddy, may I have a hot chocolate?" she asked innocently. Well, sort of innocently anyway. He always, when they were on their days off as he called them, bought himself a cup of coffee in the mornings and her a cup of hot chocolate and they would sit for a moment and Ophelia was allowed to watch all those funny people talking to themselves and carrying their funny bags and wearing those clothes. The women, sometimes, even had nice shoes and Ophelia loved watching them as well.

He growled in response and, as she was clinging to his hand anyway, she tugged on it and pointed at one of those places, the one with the red sign, actually, not the green sign, that she knew had the kind of coffee Daddy liked. And the kind of hot chocolate she liked.

Once more, he growled but she knew how to lead him there. Daddy had gotten easier and easier to read. And once, he had even smiled at her. But that had been in his sleep, really and she had been awake and had watched him. Daddy looked quite pretty when he slept. Especially if that hair of his wasn't falling all over his face and there, only a couple of weeks ago when she had dreamt about Mummy coming back and taking her away from him, she had slipped in and in the morning, when she had been up and he was still asleep, he had smiled.

So he could do it.

And she had made it her mission to see that smile while he was awake too. To make him smile. Sooner or later, she knew, she would wear him down. She had always done it – up until now. And it had almost always worked. Almost.

But suddenly, quite suddenly, when her eyes began to focus on the place where they could get their hot drinks (it was very cold outside still), she saw someone. Someone she remembered.

Hugo's mother.

No, she had not forgotten about that. She still wanted to play with Hugo. And Daddy – oh...A smirk was playing on her lips. She knew it was like Daddy's but in that moment, she knew she also thought like Daddy – from all the things he had told her, how to behave, what to do. How to be, he had phrased it, a good Slytherin.

And she was intent on being a good girl. And if that entailed being a good Slytherin for her Daddy, then so be it.

The plan was simple. He would have to talk to Hugo's Mummy. Would have to see that she was a good person and that the two of them could be friends. And if those two were friends again (because Daddy had said they weren't), there would be no more forbidding of her playing with Hugo.

Now, she only had to distract him so he didn't notice her sitting there and drinking her coffee, smiling a little.

And that, that was very simple. "Daddy, where are we going today?"

"The Globe Theatre, Ophelia, I told you already," he grumbled. He was really no fun until he had more coffee in himself. "And the Millennium Bridge and maybe, if we have enough time, Tate Modern."

"What is The Globe Theatre? What is Tate Modern? And the Minellium Bridge?" she asked as they carefully crossed the road. He had not seen her yet. True, he would think she was dumb, since he had already explained what all those places were but, just but, he wouldn't think she was dumb when he realised that she was a good little Slytherin, distracting him and having a plan to get to her goal. And her goal was clear.

Playing with Hugo.

"Ophelia, are you pretending to be stupid on purpose," he drawled as he bent down a little. Just a few metres more. Attention on her. Not on Hugo's mother. He would turn around right away if he saw her. And she could always say hello to Hugo's mother. She was no stranger. Even if she was no friend's of Daddy's.

She shook her head slowly. "Globe Theatre is old. But Tate Modern is modern," she smiled but at him and, squeezed his hand.

Two more steps and she could look up and say hello to her.

"Yes. And they play..."

"Shipsbeer in one of them and have pictures in the other," she said happily and – looked up. "Hello," her tone was suddenly very shy.

"Oh. Hello. Ophelia. Mister Snape," Hugo's mother said. Friendly.

That was the first step done, Ophelia thought to herself – feeling very proud and very Slytherinish.

_**xx**_

_**I hope this is to your liking. Please review or PM or anything – I'm addicted to feedback!**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews!**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

He would not bring her to bed, would not read to her for a week. Maybe two. No kiss good night. To distract him and then saying hello to Hermione Granger – unthinkable. The betrayal. She knew exactly that he had no longing to speak with that woman. No longing to see her.

Oh – but then again – hadn't he be the one to teach her how to be cunning? How to be sly? How to be sneaky? Had he not explained about being the essential Slytherin? Had she not promised to do her best? With her wide, dark eyes, smiling at him and promising.

And now – he was stuck there. On a muggle street, standing in front of Hermione Granger, and, his daughter was chatting to her. And he would have to say something. At least wish her a good day. Good morning, really, until he could leave again.

Ophelia was in so much trouble.

And the next lesson: when to be cunning – and when not to be cunning.

No, he would wish her a good morning, would get himself a cup of coffee and her a cup of hot chocolate and they would find a bench somewhere along the Thames and drink there. It would not be overly rude – but not friendly either.

"Good morning," he said and wanted to pull Ophelia with him, inside the coffee shop but she had dug her heels, apparently into the ground and smiled at Hermione.

"Good morning," she replied back, not even looking at him.

"And what are you doing here?" Hermione asked Ophelia, who had wriggled her hand out of his grasp and stood just there, talking to the bloody woman.

"Daddy's taking me to the Globe Theatre," she explained with a smile, "and then the Minellium Bridge and if we have the time, Tate Modern."

And suddenly, her eyes met his. And the look in them – astounded. Surprised. Shocked, almost.

"The Globe?" she asked almost voicelessly and he couldn't help the smirk appearing on his face. So – it still was simple to render a Gryffindor speechless. Or almost anyway.

"Yes," Ophelia grinned. "They play Shipsbeer there."

"Shakespeare," Granger corrected, apparently still shocked – still looking at him as if he was some kind of alien. Something she had not expected at all.

"Yes, that too," Ophelia replied.

"Why," he drawled silkily, suddenly, "does that seem so outlandish to you that I should take my daughter to a theatre? A play? A famous bridge? A museum?"

"No," she stammered, and then, seemed to pull herself together, "It's just that I've never seen you as the cultural type."

He raised his eyebrows and took Ophelia's hand in his again.

"Are you going to see Shipsbeer as well?" Ophelia asked and pulled on his hand. She really wanted to talk to this woman. Incredible. Why?

Of course...her brat.

"No," she replied instantly, "I'm looking for flats."

"Is Hugo with you?" she asked suddenly and he could not help squeezing her hand a little. Pulling her. She would not have any of it. She looked at him with a viciousness in her eyes he had not seen before.

"No," Granger replied. "He's at home with his grandparents."

"Oh," Ophelia pouted – just a little. "I really..."

"Ophelia," he said dangerously. "Do you want your hot chocolate?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes, Daddy, but.."

"Mister Snape, why don't you get your daughter her hot chocolate while I sit here with her?"she said, a strange sort of authority in her voice. Not that he would usually bow down to it – but Ophelia looked up with those huge eyes and silently pleaded and he shot Granger a look that clearly stated look-out-for-her-or-else and, with an admonishing glare at Ophelia, he quickly went inside. Lucky to have full view outside. He could see her with Granger. And if that bloody Gryffindor did anything with his daughter, she would have his hand pushed into her throat faster than she could say a single syllable.

But for now – as he was queuing, Ophelia was merely talking, and Granger was listening, a smile on her face. Or maybe no smile – maybe a grimace. He was not sure which.

And he wondered, again, why he had, without a fight, had left her there with a strange woman outside.

xx

"I really would like to play with Hugo," she said softly and hoped that the woman would hear and understand. Would see her dilemma. Even if it meant shedding her cunning and being honest. Not betraying her Daddy – oh no – but telling her that she really really really wanted it because she liked him so much.

People, she knew, actually liked it a lot when others said nice things. She liked it too. When Squiffy Mary Kelly told her that her hair was so nice and when she was allowed to run a hand through it, touching it, that was nice. Or when Daddy said that her stirring was adequate, or even good. That was nice. So maybe – if she told the woman that she liked Hugo and that he was nicely brought up (an expression she had learned from Daddy), she would begin to like her. Simple.

"I don't think that's possible," the woman said quietly back and grimaced a little.

"Why...I mean," she quickly corrected herself, "I liked him very much and I really would like him as a friend."

She sighed and smiled at Ophelia, "Your Daddy and Hugo's Daddy and myself are no friends."

"That's what Daddy said," she replied gloomily. "But..."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ophelia."

She understood. Finally. It had taken her a while but now she had understood. Now it was clear. Her Daddy did not like Hugo's parents, so she wasn't allowed to play with him. Just because their parents did not get along, did mean, automatically, that they weren't even allowed to try and get along. Probably, they did not even like her. Because they did not like her Daddy.

She squinted. "You don't like me," she said and was about to turn away, run to Daddy, who liked her at least, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and she spun around quickly.

"No, Ophelia, that's not true. I like you."

"But you won't let me play with your son," she replied sadly. "So you don't like me."

When the woman didn't say anything, Ophelia shrugged. "That's okay. A lot of people don't like me. Not even my Mummy liked me. But Squiffy Mary Kelly does. And Daddy loves me, so that's alright." she shrugged Hermione's hand off and began to walk towards the shop, towards her Daddy.

"Ophelia..." she called back and she slowly turned around. The Slytherin-way of her Daddy, her plan, had not worked. And Daddy had said that you couldn't force anyone to like you. So she wouldn't. As Daddy said, it was mostly not worth the effort.

But she was still sad. She wanted to play with Hugo. Really. But maybe he wouldn't like her either. No child had liked her before. And apart from Squiffy and Daddy, not many people liked her either. Those who came into the apothecary mostly just looked at her and frowned.

"I'll go to Daddy," she said and wanted to turn away again – when Daddy appeared suddenly again, his face angry.

So being a Slytherin had not worked at all. And he was angry. Because she had pushed her luck. Because she had truly wanted something. Even though he had said no before. It was just like the time when she had lived with Mummy. When she had always been told to be quiet and be happy with what she had.

And she thought Daddy was different.

xx

Daddy loved her?

Oh dear. He loved her. And she, obviously loved him. Even though, something was not quite right. A child knowing that a lot of people did not like her? That wasn't right. And nobody but someone called Squiffy Mary Kelly liked her? Not even her mother? There was something truly wrong with this.

And she would find out. And if it meant letting her son playing with the daughter of Severus Snape. She was projecting what she thought about her father on her and that wasn't alright. That was quite wrong. It was as if she'd forbid her babies to go to kindergarten just because she despised most of the other parents there. And the children were perfectly nice. Most of them anyway. She should apply that some rule to Ophelia. Not judge her because of who her father was.

"Ophelia, I really do like you," she said gently and did not even care that Snape was standing there and she was grasping his hand.

She looked back at her – and, she noticed – Snape looked at her as well. Even if he did not allow her to play with Hugo (which she believed), she would not be to blame if the little girl was miserable.

But, to be honest, her curiosity was spiked. Why did her mother did not like her? And did Snape really love that girl? Who was Squiffy Mary Kelly? And why was Ophelia so sure that she did not like her?

"Would you like to sit down?" she asked calmly.

"Did you insult my daughter?" he asked dangerously. Silkily. The voice she had feared in school. The voice that was like poisoned honey in her ear.

"No," she replied in kind. She knew that some of the people working with her were intimidated by her. Because sometimes, well, sometimes she was scary. She admitted to that. But intimidate Snape? That one would be difficult. But worth a try nevertheless. She looked at him directly, her mind clouded by Occlumency (one never knew with him) and her expression was, well – displeased. "I did not insult your daughter of course. I merely thought it would not be in her best interest to play with my son, since Hugo is a bit rowdy. Or can be. And Ophelia strikes me as a rather..."

"A rather what?" he asked slowly and fixed her with his eyes as well.

"She doesn't like me," Ophelia said off-handedly. "And because of that, I'm not allowed to play with Hugo."

"No, that's not..."

"Do not call my daughter a liar."

xx

He was not sure what she wanted to achieve but nobody called his Ophelia a liar. She might have just proven her cunning but she did not lie.

"I was merely saying, Mister Snape, that I do not think it wise to let those two play together. But I changed my mind. I think it would be beneficial for Hugo – and Ophelia – if they could spend time together," she said quickly and, challenged him with her gaze.

He raised a mocking eyebrow just before he bent down to hand Ophelia the cup of hot chocolate. "Careful, it's hot," he whispered in her ear. Granger did not have to know that he was a caring parent. It would be quite – counter-productive, in fact.

"So – you would consent," he had Ophelia's hand in his and held it, reassuring her, "to give your child in my care? Even if it's only for an hour?"

He felt Ophelia tense. She knew that she was close to reaching her goal. And for her Slytherinness – well, maybe she did deserve a reward for that. She had done – he knew, and had realised while getting their drinks – exactly what he had taught her to do. Now she only had to learn that she was not supposed to do it with the people she liked.

And he saw Granger tense. She had not, not in the least expected that. Of course she would not have him babysit their children. Or one of them. He was unreliable, evil, not fit to look after her precious offspring. She would say no – and Ophelia would not blame him. She would be sad and he would console her.

But Granger thought. And thought. And wrapped a curl around her finger and thought.

"Fine," she said suddenly. "You win."

He tried his hardest not to frown. Not to looked shocked. This didn't mean...

"I'll bring him by. Would tomorrow suit you?"

The child, his child, was looking up – expectantly. Hoping, wishing, and he had to groan inwardly.

"Fine," he spat and suddenly, his Ophelia bounced next to him. "Tomorrow afternoon."

And Ophelia yelped happily and sighed and hugged his legs. And he closed his eyes for only a brief moment – then looked at Granger again. And that bloody woman wore a similarly shocked expression on her face. Her gamble had not paid off – and that alone was worth it.

And he would probably have the opportunity to teach a little Gryffindor a few manners.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for your reviews. I am very unsure about this chapter. I wanted to keep Severus in character (as in character as he still is) and at the same time, wanted to bring those two at least a quarter of a step towards each other. Oh well. I hope you don't hate it too much. **_


	19. Chapter 19

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

Severus Snape had grown used to his daughter being a little less shy, being more demonstrative, hugging him a lot, and sometimes, during the night or in the mornings, crawling into his bed for a cuddle.

He did not cuddle. He held her, yes, sometimes stroked her hair and/or her back, sometimes even gave her a pat on the bottom when she stuck her too cold feet between his knees. And when she fell asleep, he liked to run his fingers gently through her hair – like his, only, due to him, much cleaner than his. Much wavier since it was cleaner, much better smelling. He had made her a shampoo. Mild. Smelling of green apples. He liked the smell, and, when she was asleep, and didn't notice, when the world outside seemed not to exist and nobody knew he was doing it, he pushed his nose in her hair, had a strand wrapped around his finger and sniffed. It wasn't solely the scent of the shampoo, the green apples but something distinguished Ophelia. A little of the apothecary, a little of the washing spell he used, a little of her soap (green apples mixed with cherry blossom. He had made that because she liked the smell and he liked the smell) and her. Essentially, his daughter smelled like his daughter.

And even though he would never admit this – not to her, not to anyone else – he knew that he enjoyed those minutes, hours, when he could watch her sleep, when she clung to his t-shirt and had her feet pressed against his thighs or between his knees and hair hair tickled his nose or his chin or his cheek, when she had her body pressed against him and sought the security only he could provide. And no, this was not his thought, not his expression.

It was hers. She said that she had never felt so safe in her life and protected. She told him. Again and again and again. And though this was another fact he would never admit – he liked to hear it. He liked her saying that she loved him.

The one thing in his life now, he knew, that he could rely on. The only person that always smiled at him. The one person that trusted him explicitly, implicitly. It was him she pressed against when she was surrounded by a lot of people, it was him that had to pick her up, shield her with his body when she had grown scared, by something he didn't know, when they had walked over the Millennium Bridge – towards the Globe Theatre. He had not been allowed to set her back on her feet until they had actually entered the Globe. And then she had clung tightly to his hand, had walked very closely to him, her shoulder brushing against his hip. But – she had listened raptly when he explained, when he told her about that theatre – about Elizabethan theatre. She had giggled when he had told her that man had played the girls' roles. She had listened in wonder when he had retold her some of Shakespeare's plays (he, as a person, had always preferred Marlowe – but maybe that was taking it all a step too far. He would explain Ophelia about him as well – though when she was a little older) and had even asked for him to read her something.

He read to her. Every night for at least fifteen minutes until she dropped off. So if she wanted Shakespeare (and he would teach her to say it – Shipsbeer wouldn't do – had only elicited a few laughs from tourists – hyper-intellectual Germans, probably), she would get Shakespeare. Not everything – of course but the less bloody plays would do. Comedies, probably. Or maybe the histories – they had visited the Tower after all.

He lay and stared at his child, carding his fingers, once more, through her hair. Silky. Soft. Dark. He had ten more minutes before he would have to get up. Get up, open the shop, give Squiffy Mary Kelly her potion (even though – yes, Ophelia had made him soft and...well, it wasn't near completion anyway), and then brace himself for an assault of Gryffindors.

Even though – he still doubted whether Granger would actually bring her son to him. Or, much less, would leave him there. She would probably look around (as far as that was possible with her nose in the air) and would deem him and his apothecary unsuitable – and would take her son with her again.

And that would break Ophelia's heart. But – she could help with the potion, the new development, he was working on. And hopefully she wouldn't cry for too long.

And suddenly, Severus felt his daughter stir beside him (another nightmare. Apparently, he would have to find out more about her mother and that woman she had always left his daughter with. If he had known...) and closed his eyes quickly. She liked waking him. Even if it was sometimes painful or plain silly. Blowing into his nostrils. Pulling his eyelids apart with her little hands. Sitting on his chest and jumping up and down a little. She had even tried poking and tickling him – and he had been able to resist, not to give into the urge to cringe and flinch (when was the last time someone had tickled him? Probably his grandmother. Back when he was too little to remember. And Lily had. But only once.) because he had been awake. It would not do for her to find out that he was, like her, ticklish.

And then there were methods that were solely her own.

A kiss for him. Anywhere on his face. Nose, cheek, chin (even though she did not like the stubble much), his eyelids, even and sometimes, she planted one of those rather wet, rather sloppy kisses on his ear. Which resulted in him hearing a whizzing sound almost all day long. He would turn his head today if he sensed her going for his ear – which, in all honesty, he doubted.

She was already jumpy and probably very excited about that afternoon and that send a pang into his chest. He did not want to disappoint his girl. And if Granger disappointed his girl – she had another thing coming. No matter how he would be able to achieve that. Nobody disappointed his girl. End of story.

No, that morning, she lay down flat onto him, chest on chest and stomach to stomach (almost anyway – but she was so tiny) and pushed both her index fingers in a nostril.

He swore if anyone would ever find out what his girl was allowed to do, he would have to use an Unforgivable. None of that would be leaked out. That was between him – and her. And she knew that, too. She knew if she told anyone that she would not be read to for a long time.

"Ophelia," he groaned and opened his eyes.

"Daddy! Daddy! Hugo's coming today," she screeched happily and he had to hide his grimace. She would be hurt.

"Ergh," was all he said and pulled her hands away from his face and threw her – as gentle as those things were possible – on the other side of the bed, made her bounce on the mattress and she squeaked.

"Daddy!" she tried to glare but failed and scrambled on her knees.

"No, Ophelia, Squiffy Mary Kelly is probably already waiting," he admonished a little and sat up. "No time today."

She sighed dramatically but smiled a moment later. "And Hugo's coming today!"

xx

She had found a flat. Only – she could not afford it. Moving would have to wait. Probably. Or she would have to wait until Ron understood the concept of alimony. Not for her – only for the children. That would then be enough to pay for a flat. One that she liked. Only, he didn't up until now. Reason? He was having the children every weekend (more like every other weekend because he was so busy – and, Hermione suspected – had found a girlfriend already) and the Wizarding courts were unused to the matter of alimony. It was not known. Probably divorcees made contracts with one another – she wasn't sure. As a matter of fact, she did not know a single divorced couple. Not really.

Oh well. She would deal with it – with him - somehow. But now – she dug her head deeper into the softness of her pillow – she had something else to consider. To agree to have Snape watch her baby had been utter, sheer madness. And yet, unfortunately, her Gryffindor-mouth (honestly – it had only worsened during her marriage with Ron) had run away with her again and she had told Hugo. And even now, she saw the shining eyes of her son. He was looking forward to it. And Rosie's "He will not bug me an entire afternoon?" had given her the rest. Naturally. But still – if she was being honest, she did not know that man at all. No, really. What was it that she knew? He was a potioneer, had been a teacher, had been a spy during the War, had loved Harry's mother obsessively, had almost died, had killed Professor Dumbledore cold-heartedly.

And she was supposed to leave her son with someone like that? Though – the cold-heartedness? She wasn't really sure about that. Nobody knew. Except probably him. And he would never tell anyone. Probably not even his daughter.

But – little Ophelia and him – that had been quite a sight. And he had treated her – like a father should treat his daughter. Loving. Gentle. Kind. He had listened to her. Had talked to her. Had let her talk. Quite differently from how Ron had behaved. He loved his children, yes, but taking them seriously? No. Letting them tell him things without interrupting or looking bored. Snape had looked many things – but not bored. No – interested in what she had to say. Listening attentively. Holding her hand. And that was – something Ron had never been able to do. Too focused on himself.

But honestly – him taking his daughter to the Globe? Tate? What was next? Buckingham Palace? Madame Tussaud's? The Tower? National Gallery? Windsor? Eton? Educating her in English Muggle Culture? Snape? The evil git that had followed the Pureblood-Maniac teaching his daughter about Shakespeare? Unthinkable.

No, in short, she did not know Severus Snape any more. And 14 years were a long time in anyone's books. People could change in 14 years. Not that that would probably change her mind about leaving Hugo there. She would observe for a while. And then decide.

"Mummy!" her door was rapidly pushed open and her Hugo stomped into the room, jumped on her bed and snuggled into her arms. "I'm going to visit Ophelia today, yes?"

She chuckled and hugged him to her. "Yes, Hugo, you'll go and visit Ophelia today."

"Yay!" he squealed and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Want to wear black today," he added and scrambled out of the bed – and ran from the room, leaving her sighing.

xx

"Daddy, when will he come?" Ophelia was, for the first time, not focused on the potion they were brewing. And maybe it was better this way. He had, for the first time in years, botched something up. But then again, it was something that would earn him a lot of money if it would work. And all of that just because his daughter could sometimes not stop talking about Squiffy Mary Kelly – and that she should not have to drink alcohol to forget.

Getting Squiffy Mary Kelly away from the alcohol – that would be the task of this potion. After that, oh well, she would, if all went according to plan, which it would, not feel the need, or the urge, or even the wish to drink any more. She could begin her life again. And find other employment.

And since he was a selfish bastard – if she had sobered up, and would remain so for a while – well, she had experience in selling things and with Ophelia and the way the business had picked up – he could do well with someone who was in the shop for him. But that was all rather hazy. First, he had to manage to actually brew the potion – and find out how Squiffy Mary Kelly was – sober. Then he could decide.

"Ophelia, either pay attention to the potion or go sit in your chair and read," he told her sternly.

"But Daddy," she complained. "It's Hugo! I'm going to play with Hugo."

"I know," he groaned. "You haven't talked about anything else today."

"But I'm happy," she argued rationally. "And looking forward."

He shook his head. "Go sit in your chair," he said, more angry at himself than at her. Usually, he never messed up potions. Not even new developments. Simple because he liked to do his homework before testing something new. Obviously there had been a mistake in his calculations (maybe because he had, in his frenzy, used a piece of parchment that Ophelia had drawn on. But he had been in a hurry to get it written down and since she was a prolific painter – and a good one – that was all there was).

"Bloody bugger," he muttered under his breath – not loud enough for Ophelia to hear and vanished the gooey mess. Lime green when he had calculated that it should be bright red. He would have to go over his notes. Write them out again. Calculate again. Check his ingredients. Double-check everything. And Squiffy Mary Kelly would be free of her addiction.

He looked at his daughter – and she sat quietly, more or less (she was humming, actually) in her chair and pretended to read. The book was, as it had been so often in the beginning when she had become his daughter, had become his girl, his Ophelia, turned upside down and she was in actual fact looking at the door. With a grin on her face. He turned his gaze to where hers rested and grimaced.

There they were. Bracing himself – he forced his face back into the indifferent mask.

He would just let them sit there, even if that meant conjuring another chair, and they would be good for him. Otherwise, he would send the Weasley brat right home. Though – was his last name Weasley at all?

"Hugo!" Ophelia squealed and jumped down from her chair as the door opened. She stopped in her tracks, however, and shot a questioning glance at her father. When he nodded (what else could he do?) slightly, she let the book fall on the floor and ran to the door.

"Ophelia!" the boy squealed as well.

Two squealing children? In a serious apothecary? That couldn't be good for business. And couldn't be good for his head. A migraine was the last thing he needed.

"Mister Snape," Hermione Granger had come to the counter and looked at him. He could not really place what kind of look it was. Testing, probably. And he would let the children be. She did not, obviously, trust him, to look after her son. And he would prove her wrong. Even though – oh well – he had no idea how to look after two children. He had enough trouble with his Ophelia already.

"Miss Granger," he nodded curtly.

"Surprised?" she asked, smirking and he shot an evil smirk back.

"A textbook Gryffindor letting someone like me even in proximity of their child? Yes, you could call that surprised. Or a few other adjectives."

"Don't make me take him back with me," she hissed. "He was looking forward to this visit and judging by Ophelia's reaction at seeing Hugo, she was too. Or would you like to purposely ruin your daughter's joy?" she asked – challengingly.

He just smirked. "I close the apothecary at six. If he's not picked up until then..."

"He'll be ingredients for your new potions?" she asked, anger obviously gleaming in her eyes.

"I was actually going to say," he drawled, "that I will send him back through the floo but if you insist..."

She stared. And stared some more and he smirked.

"Daddy!" Ophelia suddenly squealed and dragged Hugo behind her. She had manners, he had to say – when she pushed him forwards and smiled proudly. "Daddy, this is Hugo, he is my friend."

"We've met," he still couldn't hide his smirk. It was – very much like his Ophelia, "Mister..." and then he lost it. The smirk. Weasley? Granger? Granger-Weasley? Weasley-Granger?

"Weasley," now Granger smirked for a second at him and he noticed that glimmer in her eye again. It wasn't actually a glimmer – it was a golden speck. One single one. In her right eye. Brown eyes – one golden speck.

"Mister Weasley," he pulled his eyes away from hers. "There are a few rules..."

"Ophelia explained, sir," he interrupted shyly. "No talking to strangers and not coming too close to caul-thingies."

"I see he's in good hands," Granger said and, an evil smile in place (which he didn't know where it came from), she kissed her son on the top of his head, she strode out of the apothecary.

Leaving him with two very young children. Who squealed and smiled and hopped on the spot.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for your reviews and your encouragement. **_


	20. Chapter 20

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**Dedicated to all those of you who had a rotten day like me.**_

_**xx**_

Gobstones? He knew there was an old set. But they were much to young to be playing Gobstones. And especially in his apothecary. Exploding Snap? Not in his shop. And they were too young.

Wizarding Chess? Ophelia was more fascinated by viciousness of the figures on the board than the actual game. And no, he could not let them play it.

But how to entertain two such young children without having to close his apothecary? And he had done that yesterday – and did not want to do this, just for a Weasley. No – he would keep it open and if that boy was unruly, he would send him back. Even though he wasn't sure where Granger lived at the moment. She had said something, the day before, about looking for a flat. But oh well, he could send the red-head always back to his grandparents. The Burrow. They would know what to do with him.

As Severus Snape pondered those questions – what to let them play, where to bring him if he should turn out of be a typical Weasley/Gryffindor – he did not notice that the two children had, after two rounds of running around the counter, had settled on the dark wood floor, cross-legged, next to one another, and Ophelia explained slowly what her father had explained her, pointing at the jars and vials on the shelves. And Hugo listened raptly.

No – he had not noticed until he realised that something was off – and when he looked around at first, and saw nothing, only soft talking, he felt – odd. He had a duty – for the next two hours or so – to the Weasley boy as well. And he had lost him already. Heard only Ophelia. He looked around worriedly and – groaned when he saw both of them on the ground.

"Children," he said sharply – making Ophelia stop and looking at him, grinning broadly.

"Was explaining Hugo the different ingredients," she explained quickly.

"Yes, but not on the floor," he sighed and transfigured a chair from the stopper of a vial. "Sit there and you know the rules when there are customers."

"Be quiet," both of them said in unison – and he nodded – satisfied.

It would be the other way around. Ophelia would be the the calming influence and pride, yes, pride, blossomed in his chest.

"Daddy, I don't know what that is," Ophelia pointed at a jar full of pickled pig's penises. His daughter was not even five yet. He knew why he had not told her what it was. And Granger would give him hell if he explained in all detail about the various anatomical parts of a pig and why that special part was perfect to bring a woman to – well. And to bring the man to – well – last longer. Pigs were, after all, known to be, well, that way.

But no – he could not tell that to such innocent souls. Completely unaware (at least where Ophelia was concerned) where they had come from.

(And no, Ophelia, as far as he was concerned, would never know that he had paid her mother to actually do the act that would be her conception)

instead, he just said, "Erm." And both children looked at him expectantly. Just waited for him to say something. And yes, he had promised not to tell Ophelia's any lies. He would not lie to his daughter. No qualms whatsoever about lying to the Weasley boy – but Ophelia? No. He would not do it.

And they still waited. And stared and the Weasley boy did not look like a Weasley at all in that moment. No, he remembered clearly what Hermione Granger had looked like in her first lesson with him. Eager, wanting to know. Learning. Filing things away in his head. A memory with none other to match.

He tried to take a deep breath. He would tell them. Something.

"Erm," he said again – and, for the first time, since he could remember, he didn't really know how to answer a question about potions and/or ingredients. "Parts of a pig," he said quickly and hoped it would be enough.

"What parts?" Hugo Weasley asked and he could not help the scowl. Yes, he definitely was like his mother.

"Yes, what parts, Daddy?"

He sighed. Needed an answer. Something. And quick. "Corrumble," he replied – and was glad that he could still make up words. And Corrumble actually did sound like a part of a pig.

"Where is that?" Ophelia asked, frowning, but nevertheless, climbing on her chair and beckoning Hugo to do the same. The young Weasley seemed eager to please as well – and did it, and even copied Ophelia's posture – straight, sitting on his hands. No Weasley. Definitely not quite a Weasley.

"On its belly," he replied, more confident now. They believed him. And he would remove the jar as soon as Ophelia was out of sight. How stupid of him to have left it there in the first place. He had removed the tigers testicles. But not the pickled pig's penis? Stupid of him. He would have to remedy that. Soon.

"Okay," Ophelia said and turned to smile at Hugo again. "That's nice, right?"

And Severus – he tried to listen to their talk. But it was really not that – interesting. And then – he began to talk. Hugo Weasley began to talk. And he felt himself listening, registering. Putting things away for further remembering.

"And somehow, Mummy was weird and then she hugged us a lot and everything and kissed Rosie and I a lot and it was really weird. And then Mummy told Daddy that she doesn't love him and then we moved to grandma and grandpa and their dentists."

"What's dentists?" Ophelia asked.

"They drill holes in teeth," he explained.

"Really?" she made a disgusted face. "Daddy makes me brush my teeth every morning and every night. He once used a spell for that even but I did not like the taste and then..."

He did not hear the rest – yes, she had once refused to brush her teeth and he did not want her to end up like him. So he had made her. With a spell he had taught her. And he could image that not tasting good. He smirked. And was pulled out of his thoughts by a scream. Or a loud shout. And suddenly, he looked up and those two were running around his shop. Around the counter, around him – playing catch?

"Children!" he said in his most severe teach-voice. And that – did not help. They kept on running. And running. Around him and carefully avoiding everything that was in their way. But they ran and they shouted and he had never seen his daughter so – undignified.

He even tried to stand in their way – but they simply slipped past him, Ophelia in front and Hugo chasing after her. No doubt it was his fault. Chasing his daughter.

"No, Hugo," she screamed, giggled, shouted, laughed, all at once. So he was chasing after her.

"Ophelia!" he boomed and had never used that voice before. Not ever. But it would seem this was the only way to work. Only – it didn't.

"Weasley!" he boomed and that didn't work either. They just ran and suddenly, Ophelia turned around and chased the Weasley boy. And he seemed to shout and scream and giggle and laugh at the same time.

And suddenly, she stopped – in front of him and Hugo followed her quickly afterwards and also stood just before him.

"Can we go upstairs, Daddy? Want to show Hugo my books," Ophelia smiled sweetly. But oh no, he would not let them upstairs alone. They were small – yes – but apparently perfectly capable of destroying things. He would not let them wreck his flat. Not even her room. Not even that. Nothing. They would stay there where he could keep his eyes on them. Where he could control them.

"I will summon the books you want," he replied – and tried to keep his voice even.

"Yay!" the Weasley boy began to jump up and down and clapped his hands together. "Because Rosie never lets me near her books and Mummy taught her how to read and she says I'm too young to read and I can not really look at them then."

Severus nodded. And suddenly understood. A child from a divorce and his sister had the escape into books. He did not. Moving to their grandparents? He probably had to leave a lot behind.

He had, truthfully, often wished his parents would have divorced – his mother would have probably still been alive then – but to imagine a perfect family like the Weasleys going wrong somewhere? With children concerned?

No – no, he would not feel pity for Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley or any of their children.

He was getting to kind-hearted as it was. Summoning the notes for Squiffy Mary Kelly and discovering his mistake, as he summoned some of the large stack of Ophelia's books for them – and the children – on the floor again (and yes, he had cast a warming charm since they wouldn't listen to his 'On the chairs.'), reading.

There was the mistake. The nose of the cat Ophelia had drawn – it looked like an O. When it should have been an 8. And he could brew it. Today, even.

"And then the tiger does to the woods," Ophelia said, and he looked over, and he lay on her stomach.

"Ophelia," he said sternly (sighing inwardly), "do get up."

She squinted at him – then shook her head. "It's comfortable."

"Sit up, Ophelia," he said and suddenly, Hugo lay down on his stomach as well, his head almost touching his daughter's. And he had to interfere, didn't he? They couldn't just lie there.

"Mister Weasley!" he said sternly, moved around the counter, moved around and towered over them. "Ophelia."

"But Daddy..."

He groaned. And cast another warming charm.

xx

An hour later, he saw little stars. They had quietly read. For about five minutes. Then Hugo had poked Ophelia (or the other way round – though he doubted it) and they had started running again. No, they had not destroyed anything – but he was afraid for his cauldrons. And his stirring rods. And the vials and jars on the shelves. Everything was still intact. Even after several rounds of running and playing tag and whatever it was called. He didn't care.

And no matter what voice he used, nothing worked. They wouldn't stop and he swore to himself that he would never ever let his otherwise so well-behaved daughter play with that rascal any more. Though – her cheeks were pink and she smiled and laughed and giggled and it was – strange to see her with someone almost her own age. Strange. Very strange.

xx

She peeked into the apothecary. Yes, she had stayed close. In Diagon Alley – but on the corner to Knockturn Alley. She had not spied but she could not bear to be far away. Not that she could see what was going on, but still. She needed to be there.

And ten minutes to six, she strode down there. Would pick up her son. Just because Snape did not know where to send Hugo. He wouldn't know that they lived with her parents. And then he would send him to Ronald's house. Or worse – the Burrow. And no – what would happen then? She could lose custody of Hugo. And he – and probably even Rosie – would be with Molly Weasley all the time.

No – she could not let that happen.

Snape had to know where to send Hugo. No – wrong thought. He wouldn't have to know anything. She would pick her son up at the right time. And he would never have to know.

Didn't need more ammunition to make her feel bad. Certainly not.

And as she looked into the window – she knew that he would not have to need ammunition. Because she had all the weapon's in her hands. Severus Snape – being used as a maypole – danced around by two children. And they seemed to sing.

No – Hermione Granger could not hide her grin. Definitely not. And it only grew when she stepped into the shop.

They did not sing. Oh no. Both of them hummed, whistles, whatever tunes that came into their minds. It was a cacophony of sounds and the stomping of their feet and well, to be honest, she did not know what to make of it. Snape, he just stood there. Let it happen. He looked as if he was about to split his head in two – or maybe if his head was about to split him in two. But he stood, so patiently, and let her son dance around him.

He looked at her, probably instinctively, and for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger saw something which was not coldness in Severus Snape's eyes. It almost seemed as if he was asking for help. Well, almost. But it was – odd.

She put two fingers into her mouth – and whistled. Immediately, both children looked up – at her – and Snape – scowled. Even worse than before.

"Children!" she called and they were both by her side instantly. "Hugo, I think it's time to go home."

He shook his head vehemently. "Want to play with Ophelia more."

"Well," she smiled and looked up at Snape, "if Ophelia's father is willing, she can come to our place to play and I will watch you two."

And Snape locked his gaze with hers.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews. **_

_**Personal A/N: What a day. I don't think I every want to have another day like this. Everyone who knows about working in any kind of retail knows that you're always the idiot and I've just had about enough of that today. Oh well. **_


	21. Chapter 21

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

He could not believe what she had just said. And he could even less believe what Ophelia was doing. That treacherous girl. Running to his side, making those eyes that he could barely resist, tugged on his sleeve and pushed her lower lip outward.

"Please?" she whispered. "Daddy?"

He arched his eyebrows.

He had his daughter's happiness – in his hands right now. Saying no would crush her. Saying yes, would probably crush him. Well, not crush him. But he would have to go to a house full of Gryffindors. And – where did she live?

Ah – the boy had mentioned it. With his grandmother and grandfather. But that couldn't possibly mean the Weasleys, could it? But her – living with her own parents? Was that more likely? Possibly.

But Molly Weasley, the most dedicated matriarch the Wizarding World had ever seen – letting someone else take care of _her_ grandchildren? That woman was most possessive when it came to her family. But had Granger fallen in disgrace? For divorcing?

Divorces were not common in their World. People separated, yes, but legal divorces, though easy were – morally, well...not so well. It was probably just because those two were so famous that they were not morally, at least, outcast. Maybe more in their World had changed. More than he had anticipated. And if she offered to take Ophelia off his hands, for even an afternoon – no. Only with his supervision.

Though – that would possibly make him more cowardly than she had been. She had left her son – which she, without doubt, felt some affection – some love for (the way she held him close to her now proved that) – in his care. Without looking back. And he did not trust her with his daughter?

Of course not.

"We'll see," he said quietly to his daughter and looked up at Granger. She smiled at her son, had bent down a little, well, not a little, but was almost on her knees, hugging him.

"Did you like it here?" she asked him.

"Yes!" he gushed and grinned and hugged his mother tightly around the neck. "Ophelia and I played and read and Mister Snape let us run around. But we didn't break something..."

"Anything, sweetheart," she corrected gently. "And what does Mister Snape say to all this?" she asked, looking up.

"He just let us play," Hugo explained quickly and after pressing an apparently very wet kiss on Granger's cheek, he rushed over to his side and tugged on his other sleeve. "Can we play again soon? Tomorrow?"

"Let's hear what Mister Snape has to say about this," she could barely conceal her grin.

"I said we'll see."

"They did not break anything?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No." Only his head. Or something inside of his head. Something which hurt now terribly. And he would have to think about what she had said when his head wasn't killing him. About this proposition.

But – no – he would most certainly not send his poor, innocent daughter to the Weasleys.

"Where do you live?" he asked, and immediately blamed his head. Really, an apothecary and he had not thought to take a potion before she arrived. He couldn't possibly do that now. She would see through that. Immediately. Possibly.

"With my parents," she replied and the grin was wiped off her face. "I have not found a flat yet that I can afford."

He nodded sharply. "I see."

"You wouldn't even consider it if I lived with Ronald or his parents, would you?" she asked – not smiling. Her eyes not glimmering. It was a serious question. She meant it. And she knew that she was right. No, he would not even consider it. Not even for half a second.

"No."

She nodded. "Me neither," she replied viciously. "This family..."

He raised his eyebrows but she seemed to realise that there were children present. And more importantly, her child. So she shook her head and said nothing else.

But, probably for the first time in his life, he knew what was going on in her head, what she wanted to say, without actually using Legilimency. The Weasleys – are at least some of them – had not treated her particularly well after the divorce. Or maybe even before that. And she had probably taken her children and had run.

"Daddy?" she tugged on his hand again and lifted her arms. This was strange. She only did that when she wanted to be picked up. When she was scared. Why should she be scared? "Please?" she asked and he lifted her in his arms, and his Ophelia snuggled into his neck for a moment, wrapped herself around him before she looked up, and whispered, in his ear. "I'll eat all the sprouts and beans when I can play with Hugo again."

Really – what chance did he have? His girl hated sprouts and green beans. Above anything. She even ate spinach (something he had despised as a child) and to more or less promise him something like that? That was worth a lot. But still – he could not always give in.

xx

Hugo lifted his arms, just as Ophelia had done moments before and she grinned. Of course her little one wanted to be picked up just as well. And she would. Though her back hurt after that morning in the office. Nobody there to carry the stacks of files full of parchment. Some of them had been heavy and the day before, she had done laundry – the muggle way and had lifted a basket full of heavy laundry and well – she was getting older.

But Hugo wanted it and she would not allow Snape to do something she would not do. She picked him up and as Ophelia had done, he wrapped his legs, his arms around her.

"Can you make Mister Snape let us play?" he asked in a small voice. "Ophelia is my friend and Mister Snape is nice."

"Nice?" she whispered back in his little ear and he nodded urgently. "Explained and let us play and told us not to be quiet all the time."

She smiled. But she was – confused and had to look at him again.

No, this was a different person. Not the Snape she knew. The Snape knew would have made her son cry, would belittle him and would most certainly not be described as nice. And besides that – his body language spoke volumes. He was holding his daughter with one arm, letting her sit on his hip, let her talk into his ear as he brushed hair from her face, stroked her back and his expression had been interested again. It was as if what his daughter was saying was the most fascinating thing in the world.

A good father. Snape was a good father.

She breathed deeply and it seemed as if years and years of prejudices, like walls around her, blinding her, probably influenced by Ron, crumbled down. Were destroyed by those few moments when she had seen him with his girl. It was kind – but she obviously knew that her father's word was important. She listened to him when he whispered in her ear. And Ophelia smiled when she looked at her. And Snape – oh well – he scowled. Though...

No, that can't be – she thought to herself. There was warmth in his eyes, in how he was treating Ophelia. This was different. This was loving. This was kind. Stern, yes, but underlying was love. A father who knew how to treat his daughter, how to bring her up.

And obviously, he had not treated her son unfairly either. Why not let them...

"If you're uncomfortable bringing your daughter to a Muggle house, I could bring Hugo here again," she said calmly.

"Trust me," he replied coldly, and all the love that had only moments before radiated from him, had vanished suddenly. Though, he still held her protectively. And she had her arms wrapped around his neck. How could someone be so – twisted? Kind and loving to the children – cold and...

Of course.

Old feelings swept over her. Almost buried. And still, now, resurfacing. Guilt.

She sat Hugo on the ground and took two tentative steps towards him. "I trust you, Severus Snape," she said suddenly, astonished that his first name was so easy to say. Any title would have sounded wrong. Mister or Professor – both would have been wrong. Both would have almost been mocking. Master Snape? Wrong. It sounded best this way. "I know I haven't always. But I trust you to take good care of my son."

xx

He looked at this woman standing there boldly. Calling him by his first name? Telling him she trusted him? A bit late for that, wasn't it?

Severus Snape wasn't sure what to make of this and instead, he tightened his hold on his daughter a little. Came sweeping in here? Dumping her son on him? Letting him babysit? Trusting him. Obviously.

And he found that no, he did not trust her with his child. Not yet. But his daughter – his Ophelia – she wanted it. She wanted to go there.

"I will bring her by tomorrow at three if that is agreeable," he said slowly and his headache only worsened when he saw a broadly grinning Granger – and two whooping and happily laughing children.

He would bring her there – and would stay. Until he was sure she was well and safe and happy.

_**xx**_

_**Okay, my dear people, I am very sorry that this is so short. **_

_**But I have an excuse. I fell in complete fangirling-mode when Robbie Williams's first live concert in three years was broadcast live over the radio and of course I had to record it (oh, the joys of the internet) and had to cut it and burn it on CD and when that was done, my best friend came over and once more completely ignored my wishes and talked and talked and talked about his ex-girlfriend and that he wants her back and still loves her. That's why this is so short. Sorry! Longer tomorrow!**_


	22. Chapter 22

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**This one is dedicated to the Möwe who knows why.**_

_**xx**_

She turned around sleepily and her arm sneaked around his waist as she snuggled to him from behind. She knew he was at least a bit awake when his hand came to rest upon hers and he tangled his fingers with hers. It was bliss when they had a little time like this in the morning. Just for a little cuddle -when neither of them had to get up immediately, when they had time for themselves.

She heard him groan – a familiar sound – and she chuckled softly and pushed herself up a little to kiss his neck. "Morning," she whispered in his ear, closely.

"Morning," he groaned back. Groans were the only sounds that came naturally to him in the mornings. Before his first cuppa. But he would always turn around on mornings like this and wrap her in his arms and take her in his embrace and kiss her forehead or her temple or her hair – depending. Or, like this morning, he would first push her unruly, tousled curls away, away from his own face, breathing, puffing to keep the strands away, before he dropped a gentle kiss against her eyebrow.

He groaned again and moved his hand to her hip and pulled her closer and she chuckled again when she buried her nose in the top of his pyjama. "When do we have to get up?" she asked softly.

"You woke me," he replied, "do you think I want to turn around and see what time it is?"

She chuckled again and pushed him on his back, glancing then at the alarm clock on his bedside table. "7.10," she said and made herself comfortable on him, her legs between his and her head on his chest.

"She'll be up already," he kissed her curls again and let his hand wander up and down her back.

"I don't care right now," she complained a little. "I want to stay right here."

"And she'll walk in again," he groaned.

"I thought you've taught her not to."

"Hmpf," he muttered, "she will have forgotten about this."

"I doubt she forgot anything you ever taught her," she laughed and snuggled closer, pressing her legs against him.

"You can't mean that when she's awake," he grumbled.

"Why not?" she smirked.

He rolled his eyes but before he could say another word, she had wriggled upwards and kissed him on the lips, smirking when she felt him respond in kind, when his tongue slipped into her mouth. It was a matter of seconds, when they were engaged in a deep, loving, sensual kiss and she pushed her hand underneath his pyjama top, stroking his chest, grazing her fingers over his skin.

He groaned, this time – for another reason as she rubbed her leg up and down and she pulled away and stared into his eyes. A surge of love rushed through her and she knew she had to tell him.

"I love you, John," she whispered breathlessly and touched him on his cheek, on his chest.

"I love you too, Jude," he whispered back before he made short work of her nightie and pulled it over her head and threw it far, far away.

xx

"When do we go, Daddy?" Ophelia asked impatiently, pushing her green beans and liver around her plate. It made him smirk, really. Granted, it had been a bit much, probably, to serve her liver _and_ green beans for lunch, and yes, they would go, no matter what or how much she would eat and yet, but so far, she had been incredibly Slytherin in her ways and he was curious to see how far she would go to see her new friend. And she had already gone incredibly far. It was the first time, he had made her liver (since, well, he did not like it much himself – remembering all too well how his parents had always made him finish his liver and whatever it had been that he had not liked – and if he didn't – he would get it again at the next meal from his father. Even if it was breakfast and he would get nothing else but cold liver) and it was incredibly clear that she despised it as well. Her face was still too open.

But then again – she could read him well also. SO maybe it was their connection as father and daughter that made it simple for him to understand her. Whatever it was, she was – bravely eating. Even though she obviously hated it.

"Chew, Ophelia," he said suddenly when he saw her choking it down without chewing properly.

She nodded miserably but when she looked up – and into his eyes – there was cold determination. Something that he had not known from himself when he had been that age. But – maybe, he had not dared to do that. To have that look. It would have meant the belt in any case.

She was different. And she was absolutely determined to see her friend. He knew his gaze softened when he saw her putting another large piece of liver in her mouth, chewing it twice and gulping it down. And then a bean – chewed twice.

"You'll make yourself sick," he said gently but she kept her eyes on her plate and kept eating and a few minutes later – she was finished – when he was still fighting to get the liver into his stomach – and he was astonished. By her strength, determination, power to carry out something she had planned to achieve.

"Done," she said grimly and pushed the plate away from her. "Can we go to Hugo now?"

He knew that something was wrong with his face. Completely wrong. It had not felt this odd for a while. And he knew, by the shocked look on her face – that he could smile.

He smiled. Full of pride for his strong daughter, stubborn, fighting little girl. And his girl saw it. And smiled back – suddenly.

"You can smile, Daddy," she said and rushed around the table to inspect it more closely.

"Of course I can smile," he replied gruffly and it was gone again. As quickly as it had appeared.

"Do it again!" Ophelia hopped on the spot. "Please!"

He shook his head. "No," he replied. "Go and get changed and we'll go to this Weasley."

"Really?" she asked and hopped more and squeaked and bounced and hugged him and flew into his arms and hugged more and in a flash, she was gone, leaving a startled, proud Severus behind. Who could only shake his head. Smiled. Because of his daughter. Completely odd.

And he would have to see Granger and her parents and that brat and be in a Muggle house. And he had smiled – and that had shaken him. A little. It had, oddly enough, not hurt. Not at all.

xx

Jonathan Granger had only had appointments that morning. Only two and he was glad. That morning had – oh well. He loved his wife and her occasional wish for – things – in the mornings. Not that often but that morning had been wonderful. Peaceful. The perfect start to the day. In his opinion – despite the fact that they had been married for over thirty years, he still found he loved her more every day he was with her.

And with their daughter back home – and the grandchildren – it seemed it added another layer. Though he could not put his finger on it. Maybe that he was more at home – that he had cut back a little on the appointments, even if it meant people, who were not emergencies, had to wait longer. All those bleachings anyway – as long as the teeth were good – no cavities – nothing, so? He disliked those young girls coming in, trying to force him to bleach their teeth that he thought they'd been glowing in the dark. No, he did not like to do that and could jolly well cut back on that.

Maybe it was that – maybe it was the fact that every night, either Hermione or Jude cooked for him. That there wasn't always something out of a packet. That it was good food – and that the entire family assembled around the table and ate together. Yes, it had been sad that Hermione had that divorce. But lucky for them, he thought. And besides, Ronald and him – no – that boy had taken their girl from them. Had kept her from them. Had made her spent every...no, no need to cry over spilt milk. No use in that. It was over. And that was maybe why she was so reluctant to leave again.

And nobody would hear him complain. Not when Hugo was playing with his train set (non-magical) in the living room, when Rosie was sitting in their room reading, Hermione and Judith out to the shop to buy things for the dinner and he could read the paper – peacefully – in the kitchen with a cup of tea in front of him.

And – he knew – company coming. Though Hermione had said that she still believed that this Severus Snape person would not show up. Jude thought he would. And he – he wasn't sure what to think. But to be honest, he would use the chance. He would thank this man. For saving his daughter. Helping her and her friends. For almost giving his life.

Something his two women, both Jude and Hermione, had clearly not done yet. And that was wrong of them – but if he said something, they'd both be angry. And with an angry Jude – a morning like this was not possible. He smiled and took a sip of his tea. What a lovely morning it had been.

xx

White fence. Naturally. Trimmed lawn. House. Average.

"Is this where Hugo lives?" Ophelia asked, happiness in her voice.

"I certainly hope so," he replied gruffly and looked at her. Just to spite the sheer Muggleness (and he did not mind the Muggleness per se) he had told Ophelia to wear her robes and skirt and jumper and her silver-buckled snake shoes and he had not changed himself. Let those nosy neighbours that always lived in places like this talk about the Grangers. He smirked and the walked up towards the house – Ophelia's hand in his. He would not let her go in such a place. Or anywhere.

"Daddy, look, there's a bell," she said in wonder. Of course – the girl had lived in the Muggle World for such a long time and now she was back after her brief stint with him. Door knockers were still new – bells normal.

"Ring it then," he grumbled and, with a look in his eyes, she dragged him forward and rang.

For a moment, nothing could be hear from inside and then – the boy's voice. Shouting something. And another moment later – the door was flung open (such were the post-war children. Completely careless. Not his Ophelia. Definitely not. She would get no bedtime story for the rest of her life if she'd ever consider opening the door that way) and Ophelia grinned and the boy grinned and suddenly, he did not feel her hand in his again and she had skipped inside with the boy. Without adult supervision!

"Hello," her heard then and a man – Granger's father, probably – came out from a room at the end of the corridor. "You must me Severus Snape."

He nodded sharply. "Good day," he said. Were they early?

"Just in time," the man said and walked towards him. "I'm Jonathan Granger," he added and reached out, shaking his hand. "Please do come in, my wife and my daughter are still out shopping."

He didn't know what to say to this – Granger – not in time? Was she aware that she would never allow her son and his daughter to play together after this? Not that he cared – but her son would. And of course, Ophelia. He found himself stepping into the house. Heard his daughter squeal happily and a sudden thump and he looked up.

"They probably discovered the train set," Jonathan Granger chuckled. "Come through to the kitchen, we'll have a cup of tea."

He still did not know what to say. He had planned to stay, yes, but close to Ophelia. Watching what she was doing.

"The living room is secure for children. I don't know how my Hermione did it but nothing can be broken and even if they jump on something, it will not fall over and hurt them. No need to worry."

Severus Snape was – puzzled. Completely. This man was a Muggle – he should not be able to know what he was thinking, feeling. He had his wand at the ready – inside his pocket – ready to hex him, blow him to pieces, should it turn out this was an imposter. Someone disguised as Granger's father but someone who meant harm to his girl.

"Don't worry," he said, looking over his shoulder and then walking towards the room he had come from again, "I know what it's like. I couldn't really let Hermione out of my sight when she was that age and she's rather like Rosie in that respect and read a lot. And kept to herself."

"I see," he said, completely stunned. Who was this man?

"Earl Grey? Darjeeling?" the man asked again and Severus Snape was not sure how he had made his way into the kitchen. Someone – anyone – to treat him this way? Inconceivable. Had not happened. Ever. In his life. Never. So open. So normal. So – friendly.

"Earl Grey, please," he found himself saying – feeling warm in the kitchen. It was just the kitchen that he had always thought a normal family would have. Warm, clean, a lived in feeling though – with a large table in the middle, six chairs around it, a kettle, various appliances that had not existed in his time as a Muggle boy, an Aga. Fridge. So normal. So Muggle. It struck him as so – average. That one of the – really (and he said that as the former Head of House of Slytherin) brightest witches of her generation – had grown up here seemed so – strange.

"There you go," Granger said and put a mug in front of him. A white mug. Normal. "Milk? Sugar? And you should maybe take those robes off. My wife overdid it with the heating again."

He was still sort of speechless but almost obediently, he slipped out of the robes and put them carefully on the back of his chair, the wand now stuck inside the sleeve of his frock coat. "Nothing, thank you," he replied. Or rather heard himself reply.

Had Hermione Granger told her parents anything about him at all? What he had done? That he was not to be treated like a normal guest?

"I'm afraid my women are rather always late when it comes to shopping. It's not my Hermione's fault – it's my wife. She always meets someone for a little natter but I'm glad that I have a chance to speak to you."

A loud, happy squeal from Ophelia (it was a noise like the one she made when he tickled her) pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Why?" he asked – his voice back to the normal, cold self.

"I wanted to thank you," Granger sat down opposite him, holding his mug of tea. "I know that my wife didn't and I know that my Hermione didn't and I think you deserve it."

"Excuse me?" he asked – stunned again. What a day that had turned out to be. Ophelia eating liver and green beans without a word of complaint, him smiling, him being treated like a normal human being, and – now he was being thanked? A weird dream – probably.

"I mean it," the man opposite him was very serious. "I know that Hermione always complained about you in the early stages when she went to Hogwarts. Too stern, too unfair, too whatnot but later – after the War – before she got married, of course, she said that she had learned the important spells, the nonverbal spells from you. That you saved her life on more than one occasion. And I think back then, before she married that...Weasley, she would have wanted to thank you. As it was, that...husband of hers had more influence on her than we thought and I think she quite forgot. And I have not had the chance to talk to you yet, and I want to thank you. You brought my girl back alive. You taught her well."

To say he was shocked now would be – not enough. Thanks? Unheard of. And he had to say something now, didn't he? It was expected. "It was my task," he replied – voicelessly.

And Granger – he shook his head. "No it wasn't. And I just wanted to say it. Nothing more. So – change of topic. That daughter of yours is awfully sweet."

And still – that incredible feeling of shock in his chest. Maybe the squealing of the children, the shouting, the day before had somehow damaged his eardrum and he had not heard correctly.

No – his ears were fine. He had even talked briefly talked to Squiffy Mary Kelly that morning and had understood her slurring. Telling her that she would get two potions in the near future. His ears were fine. He had been thanked. By a Muggle. By a Gryffindor's father. By none other than Granger's father.

"I'm afraid her manners are still sorely lacking," he found himself saying, "she did not even greet you."

Granger laughed. "That's quite alright. That – Weasley – never even greeted people decently. No worries. She was probably just as excited as Hugo wa..."

"Hello!" came a shout from the door. "We're home."

"We're in here," he called back and a moment later, he found himself staring into the smiling faces of Hermione Granger and her mother.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews. **_

_**One more thing today: Most of you know my updating habits. Every day. It will – hopefully – continue to be that way. I will not abandon this story, I will not start now to update every month. No – if I cannot for one reason or another (too much work, too much depression, or ff's letting me down again) update every day, you know that I will update the next for sure. Even if it is a small chapter. I have no plans on going on holiday soon either. So this fic, I have to repeat myself, will be updated mostly every day. Can you imagine that a review that only consists of 'update soon' is weird to me and I keep thinking – well – I am updating soon. Probably more often than anyone else on this site (and mind, I am writing those chapter every day – I do not have them pre-written!). **_

_**I know that writing reviews is a difficult business – I know (and I had to learn to write decent reviews), trust me. But 'update soon' – well, what does it tell me about the chapter that I have just written? **_

_**So – I have the following proposition: Every person who writes a review, which shows up on the reviews page with more than three lines, and does not contain the words 'update soon', (or a repetition of 'great chapter great chapter') will get a dedication. Alright?**_

_**Thanks!**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

**Okay, this is going to be a long list and I love you for it!**

**Dedicated to (alphabetically and by the time I was writing this)**

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**Thank you! You were all pretty amazing! Please keep it up and we'll make such lists regularly, okay? Those reviews helped me a lot. **

**Now – on with the story already!**

**xx**

Severus Snape – sitting in her parents' kitchen – sipping tea – chatting with her father? That was odd – to say the least. But she could not really imagine that he felt any less – odd, drinking tea with her father and her mother, despite everything, smiling and shaking his hand and pouring herself and Hermione a cup as well before she stored away all the things and pushed her daughter – her own flesh and blood! - less than gentle on one of the chairs. She had listened, in the meantime, to her father talking. About her as a child and more than once, a groan was threatening to escape her throat.

Nobody – least of all Severus Snape – had to hear about the story when she had picked flowers from the neighbour's and had brought them to her mother. And yet it seemed, her father – her own flesh and blood! - delighted in telling this story. To everyone – whether they wanted to hear it or not. The entire Weasley family had heard it. Harry. Professor McGonagall. Hagrid. Every other member of their family (including dotty Aunt Mildred – who loved to tell it to other people as well). And it wasn't even that big a deal. She had been 2. And had wanted to bring some joy to her mother. And those had been the nearest flowers. Flowers brought joy. What had she known that those were prized English garden roses? At least she had not bled to death from those silly thorns. And it had been a nice bunch of flowers.

And nobody had told her.

She smiled secretly. It seemed she was really getting over Ron if she could smile about this now. Ron had first not understood that there was such a thing as prize-giving for flowers (no such thing in the Wizarding World, it seemed) – and when he had understood, he had spent days, laughing about it. And about her.

She had been little. And she thought those smelled nice and looked pretty. It had been hard work, getting the flowers away from the bush. But she had managed, with fingers, hands, teeth.

And Mum had been terrified and shocked. Poor Missus Walter's roses. Poor them for probably having to pay for the damage done (Mum knew as much about flowers, and roses, as she did. Close to nothing – even though – roses were used in various love potions and healing draughts. But to actually grow them herself? No, she could not possibly. They'd be dead after two days. No green thumb found with the Grangers).

But really – was she getting over Ron? So quickly?

She wasn't sure. The odd throbbing in her chest had lessened. The feeling of guilt had not. She still felt it. Guilty towards Ronald for leaving him – and towards her children for making them miss their father.

Plus – Rosie had confessed. Just the night before. Rosie had stated clearly that her daddy always said that he missed them. Missed Hermione. Not that she could imagine that if the rumours were true and he had found a nice girlfriend that was somehow related to a cousin of Molly's. A nice, homely girl. That's what the people in the Ministry had said. Worked part-time in a store for clothes in Cardiff.

And was probably willing to give it all up for a man.

Not like her.

And, looking at the man opposite her – he had given up nothing for his daughter. Even though the poor girl's Mummy was dead (said the Ministry records at least). And he had let them play in the shop – without a nanny or a minder. There had been no one but him. Why – why should she give up work (for longer than necessary) if single fathers didn't.

Single? Well, technically, she didn't know that he was single. But she knew someone who would know. Smirking slightly, she got up and walked to the kitchen door – towards the living room where she could hear them play.

"Oh, Hermione," her mother held her back suddenly. "Please stay here and entertain Mister Snape for a while. Your father must look at the, erm, gas cylinder in the, erm, car."

"I just wanted to check on Hugo and Ophelia," Hermione turned and looked at her mother – seeing through this little charade of hers. Her father would not even find a gas cylinder if it were put right in front of his nose. Which it probably was. Hermione didn't know herself what exactly that was in any case.

"We'll do that," her father said levelly. "Oh, and Mister Snape, please don't leave before we come back. There's a secret about fatherhood that I have yet to tell you. Without nosy women listening in."

xx

He felt a slight push on his back and turned to glare. "Very smooth", he hissed and without waiting for an answer, he peeked inside the living room.

Both children, his red-headed Hugo and the dark, black-haired Ophelia were sitting on the floor, playing with the train – and – letting two trains run towards each other. Until they crashed. John raised his eyebrows and chuckled until both of them looked up gleefully. "Look, grandpa, we played train," Hugo said proudly.

"Yes," Ophelia nodded. "And now we have to heal all the people before the trains can run again."

He chuckled again – Ophelia was awfully sweet. "Then keep on healing and crashing. Your Daddy, Ophelia, and your Mummy, Hugo, are in the kitchen should you need them."

The children nodded and he watched for a moment longer as they were immersed in their play. Ophelia had understood magic very well, he thought. She waved her hand, with an outstretched finger over the trains – and the probably imaginary people in them, and grinned at Hugo. "We can crash again," she said solemnly. "They're all still alive."

xx

He knew, technically, that people were different when they were at home. Nobody but Ophelia had ever seen him in his own home and he planned to keep it that way. He was different at home – shed the robes and frock coat as soon as he came into the door but nobody but Ophelia knew that.

Granger there was different as well. She seemed to enjoy to being there, albeit very quietly. He had never known her to be quiet. But no, she had only chuckled once quickly when her father had told anecdotes from her childhood (and hadn't the man realised that it would only make him, Severus Snape, keep an even more watchful eye on his daughter? Even though he had to admit – talking to Granger, the male Granger, oh, sod it, Jonathan Granger, had been simple. The man spoke and he listened. Insightful, really. Sort of). And had then almost left the room.

To look how the children were doing.

And now, now they were sitting opposite and probably, for the first time in both their lives, completely at a loss what to say. No, he could not get it out of his head that the woman who had yelled at him, the girl who had set him on fire, had stolen from him and had done all sorts of mischievous things at school would be so quiet when she was around her parents. Both her parents.

He wasn't known to be the great conversationalist in any case. Until, of course, a thought came into his head.

"What spell did you use to make the living room safe for the children?" he asked, trying to keep his voice, well, at least neutral.

And in that moment, her eyes lit up. The golden fleck appeared and she smiled.

xx

He was interested in how she kept her children safe? Interested in silly wand-waving? Well, of course it was his daughter as well who was playing in the living room now but still.

Ah – so he had not done anything in his flat. That was why Ophelia was kept on the chair in the corner the entire time? It would most certainly make sense and if Harry had been right (or the Ministry record that Harry had looked at), then he would not have had the child for long. Not since birth (and yes, oddly enough – those newspaper people had lost interest in their story. For the time being, probably) and she had to smile.

The same thing she had seen in his eyes the day before. A sort of wish to be helped. Without actually having to ask for it. It would be like him after all.

"I use a combination of spells, really," she replied, smiling. "The glass objects and other breakables in the room have an Unbreakable Charm on them. There are age lines around the TV, for instance, of the Stereo. I had to add that after Rosie thought it was funny to see what this thing did. One Sunday morning when we had all still been sleeping. And my father has this insane liking of – erm, Elvis Presley. I don't know where he got it from. Are you...?"

"I do know who Elvis Presley is. Was," he snarled.

"Fine," she still smiled. "So this Sunday morning, about three weeks ago, we were all woken up by a loud, blaring, In the Ghetto. Not the way I always want to wake up."

He nodded. "Any other spells?"

She looked at him. It had been a funny morning. One when she hadn't woken up feeling quite so guilty. No, in fact she had wanted to strangle her daughter. But only for about two minutes. Then she had wanted to strangle her father for actually singing along. In front of her door. "Yes," she said slowly.

"And which?"

He was curious. Strangely curious. Hermione could easily say that she had never seen that particular expression on his face. It was new to her. Like a school boy, eager to learn. And if that hadn't been Severus Snape sitting at that table with her, this expression on his face would have endeared him to her. Such as it was – no. She would explain, he would snarl something about incompetence and idiocy and Gryffindors and he would wait five minutes in silence, tell his daughter it was time to go and disappear.

"There is another one which I find highly useful," she continued. Best get it over with.

"Yes?" he drawled.

"It's a combination of a Cushioning and a Motion-slowing Spell," she said softly. "I, er, invented it."

He remained silent. Said absolutely nothing. Probably waited for her to say, to explain. Only – why should she?

Right – because children got into trouble. Children sat on chairs and bounced and chairs fell over.

"It's two-fold," she began hesitantly. "At first you have to make sure that the object, like a chair, or a coffee table, or in case of my children, the regular dining table, and even parts of cupboards, stay where they are. I use a Sticking Charm with the tables and the cupboards and a modified Sticking Charm for the chairs – meaning that they can only be moved about, let's say, a meter from where you had them originally. After that, you cast the spell, my spell, on the object and the floor surrounding it. I suppose a regular Cushioning Charm would do – but since my spell is only activated by rapid or sudden movement away from the designated area, you don't have to walk over that Charm all the time."

"What's the incantation and the movement?" he asked suddenly, pulling his wand from the inside of his sleeve and Hermione Granger had to breathe deeply. Severus Snape wanting to learn something? From her? Inconceivable.

xx

Of course the car was fine. But Hermione had a lot of baggage with that man and darling John talking about how little Hermione had been would not help the two of them in the slightest.

And yes, she had been angry, a little with John. Down there, back there, in the garage.

"You're not matchmaking, are you?" he had asked, his arm around her waist as she looked at the motor compartment of their Hybrid Car (Hermione had insisted. Environmentally friendly). Only plastic to be seen there. And things she certainly did not understand.

"Of course I'm not," she had huffed and pushed his arms away. "She should have a chance to speak to him."

"She had that yesterday."

"Yes, but in his shop and the children around and you know how she is. She'd rather bite her tongue than say anything in front of the children that they could misunderstand."

John had sighed. "Have we been long enough out here? I doubt this thing has a gas cylinder."

And he had merely pulled her with him. Back inside, where Hugo and Ophelia were still playing train wreck and healing people and where the door to the kitchen was slightly ajar.

She peeked in, of course, it was in her nature to protect her daughter and what she saw caused her to gasp slightly. There they stood, both of them, in the middle of the room, with their wands out, casting spells at cups and saucers and letting them fall on the floor. Both of them. And those were not shattering. The cups and saucers bounced back a little and rolled a bit on the floor before they just stayed there. Unbroken.

"You know," John whispered suddenly behind her, his chin on her shoulder, "I would not mind having him as my next son-in-law."

_**xx**_

_**Thank you so much for all your encouraging reviews. Please keep that up it made a little depressed girl very happy (and yes, it is kind of sad to say that the highlight of my week so far was getting all those reviews for the last chapter but hey – that's my life at the moment)! Thank you! (I'm sorry if some of you thought they should be in there – truly. Leave me another long review and you'll be in the next – it's just that this was how my screen showed it!)**_

_**Thank you again!**_

_**Oh, and my thoughts go out to the reviewer who told me that her sister is missing and that's she's very worried. I'm with you, sweetheart and I hope all will be fine!**_


	24. Chapter 24

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

"I'm rather fond of those cups and saucers," grandma said whisperingly to grandpa as they both stood in front of their kitchen – the door ajar and grandma was looking over her shoulder to grandpa and frowned. "And how can you say that you wouldn't mind him as a son-in-law?"

"Because he's nice. He doesn't speak much and he pretends to be awful but he loves his daughter and he stared at Hermione," grandpa hissed back.

"Stared at Her...when?"

"When I was talking about those silly roses from silly Missus Walter. He kept looking at her, as if he was trying to figure her out."

"That's not staring," grandma argued.

"It was staring. Not lovey-dovey staring. It was wanting-to-get-to-know-you-staring."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have eyes and ears and have lived together long enough with you," he said – and suddenly kissed grandma's nose. "And because he has manners. He was actually rather dumbstruck, I thought, when I thanked him"

"Thanked him?" grandma whispered viciously. "Thanked him? Whatever for?"

"For saving her life. And ours. And for teaching her," he replied coldly. "The same thing you wanted to thank him for and she wanted to thank him for. Both of you forgot since it's so long ago and different things were happening, but there, I remembered. And I thanked him," he looked at her strangely. "And this kept him in the house."

"Sometimes, I don't understand you, John," grandma huffed. "Why did you want him to stay here?"

"You women see and talk and don't even realise that you give away valuable information when you do. Now, seriously, you and Hermione – two of the brightest, smartest, wittiest girls I know. Granted, Hermione's a bit low at the moment, but usually, she's like that and both of you failed to see that he lives in above an apothecary, alone, with only his daughter, and has not other social interaction other than to his customers."

"He told you that?"

"No, of course he did not tell me that," grandpa John groaned. "You did. And Hermione."

Grandma frowned. "When? How?"

Grandpa rolled his eyes. "All the time. Didn't you notice that Hermione talked about him all the time since yesterday?"

"_You_ are matchmaking, not me."

"I'm keeping out of it."

"And it was Hugo who talked about his daughter."

"Ophelia," grandpa corrected. "And he started it and she kept on going. During dinner, after dinner when she sat with us and her tea and her books, after she brought the kids to bed, this morning at breakfast."

"Hugo wondered if he would come with Ophelia," grandma countered.

"And did you listen to her? Hermione's fascinated. Only she doesn't know it yet," grandpa smirked. "And she's right. He's fascinating. Not talkative. But there's depth in his eyes. His eyes looked like David's."

"David? Why David?"

"When David came back from Korea, there was always the look in his eyes. I was a child, yes, but there was this look in his eyes. Knowing. And you know how he is."

"Balmy. Crackers," she replied immediately.

"Not able to hurt someone. He put me in a corner for half a day when he found me keeping a billy witch in a jar and wanted to see how long it lasted without air."

"That's just cruel," grandma said, disgusted.

"Yes. And David could not see it. He would not. He set it free and put me in the corner. With the same look. Just as David was, he's probably sick of what he's seen. It will never go away."

Grandma shook her head. "I've never seen that in David."

"It's there," grandpa replied wistfully. "Look at him next time you talk to him. Or better, talk about any of the wars now going on in the world. He will not even reply. He will just leave the room," he added. "That's David and so is he."

"I...," grandma hesitated, "I don't know. I don't think I've seen it this way. Do you think he's shell shocked?"

"No, of course not," grandpa groaned again. "It's about the violence. He will hate violence in any way, shape or form. Invite him for dinner tonight, tell him to stay, and when Rosie tries to read under the table, give her a slap on the fingers and watch what he does."

"Excuse me? I never slap her on the fingers," grandma replied indignantly.

"Only when you see the book she's hiding," grandpa smirked and fell silent.

"John but..."

"No, dear. Audience," he muttered but enough for her to hear.

"Oh, Rosie," grandma said suddenly and beamed. "We thought you were reading up there."

She could only nod and try to understand what those two had been talking about. She had heard from Hugo and Mummy that they had gone to someone for Hugo to play with someone. Probably that Ophelia that now sat in the living room, cosily with Hugo and rearranged the train set. And the other person, the one they were talking about was her father then. Ophelia's father. Who had a special look in his eyes because he could not stand violence. Whatever that was.

"I was," she said quietly. "But I'm thirsty."

"Well, go in, sweetheart," grandma said, stilling smiling and pointed at the door. "Your grandpa and I were just going to see if Hugo and Ophelia are alright."

"Or if the gas cylinder still does not exist in the car," grandpa mumbled.

She smiled back – not letting them know that she had heard their conversation and was trudged through to the kitchen – pushed the door open – and was surprised what she saw.

There was the man from the apothecary (why had nobody told her that they would be going there to play? She would have gone immediately!), bouncing tea cups on the floor and Mummy was watching him, fascinated, and he had this strange look on his face. But Rose could not possibly say if he didn't like violence (she disliked broccoli and fish fingers. Was violence something like that anyhow?). He seemed to enjoy bouncing tea cups on the floor. And even saucers.

"Rosie," Mummy said and smiled. "Finished the book?"

She nodded. "I started on the next one already," she replied solemnly and traipsed to the fridge. There was always something to drink there that she liked. Though, with Mummy around – she wouldn't be allowed Coke. Or anything (and she liked it – even though she did have to clean her teeth afterwards). It would be water. Or something equally boring.

"Can I have some Tango, Mummy?" she asked hopefully.

Mummy smiled at the floor and then looked at her. "Only a little glass, okay? And it's 'may I', not 'can I?'," she added, shifting her eyes so she could look at this strange man. "Mister Snape, would you like something to drink apart from tea?" she asked the man.

He shook his head instantly and placed the cup on the table. Carefully. Very, very carefully. "No, thank you. Ophelia and I will be going home," he said in a voice that poured into Rose's ear. She had not paid attention to his voice when she had been to the apothecary with Mummy and pesky Hugo but now, she was. And the voice, somehow, compelled her. She stopped in her tracks and looked at him more closely. He wore black – from head to toe. And he wore robes, but of course he would be a wizard if he worked in an apothecary. And his face was far from friendly. On the contrary. He looked – almost annoyed. And the voice was very nice. Silky soft. Deeper than Daddy's, deeper than grandpa's and grandpa had a nice voice – but, she wondered, how would it be, to have someone like him tell her about...oh, of course. He could help her. He was making potions. He was selling them.

Suddenly, Rose was just trying to get to him, because, well, she had to ask, the door flung open and grandma and grandpa walked in. "Mister Snape, please stay for dinner," grandma said sweetly. "We have enough and Hermione promised to make cottage pie. It's not much but hers is superb."

He shook his head again and Rosie knew that this was her chance since none of the grown ups spoke. She finished the rest of the way and stood just before him. Unfortunately, he did not look down and she had to cough before he noticed her and looked at her with those eyes that grandpa had said had a – look. And no, she didn't see it, but she knew there was knowledge. And maybe the way to make Mummy understand. She clearly talked to him. And since he was a grown up. Oh well – she had to try.

"Erm," she began, not sure about his name. Snape? Sounded odd. She would go for the direct approach. The easy one. The one grandma had explained. "Sir?"

He looked down and in this deep, lovely, voice, he said slowly, "yes?"

"My mummy doesn't allow me to brew potions and you work in an apothecary, right?"

"I own an apothecary," he replied and she liked those eyes now they were fixed on her. He talked to her. He looked at her and not down on her. Even though, technically, he was very tall and had to look down. But he wasn't like Daddy who always pretended to listen and never did.

"Can, no, could you tell Mummy that it's not dangerous to brew potions, please? So she will buy me a set?"

He looked briefly at Mummy and raised an eyebrow. One! She had tried that – but it was difficult and somehow, she always looked like great-grandma Maude when she did it. Weirdly. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Six and a half," she explained eagerly. "I know how to write and I can do maths up until 20."

"Really?" he said slowly.

"Rose?" Mummy said and used her dangerous voice. "You know why you can't brew, or try to brew here."

She shook her head. "It's only because you don't like brewing," she said petulantly. Even though, well, she knew it wasn't true. Mummy loved brewing. But only ever alone. And that was boring. For Rose. Not for Mummy.

"Now now, Rose," grandpa said and she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe Mister Snape can answer some of your questions," the nice man was looking at grandpa and his eyes were still dark and boring. She simply did not see the look there, "And I know you have enough from all those books you snuck away from your mother."

She bit her lip. She had technically not stolen the books. They were there, in Mummy's bookbox again. Well, now. She had just taken some out and had read them. Only a few. Most of which, well, she hated to admit it, but most of the things she hadn't understood anyway.

"Do you," he said in a sort of mocking tone, "have questions?" He looked at Mummy with an odd expression. As if he had won something. A nice cup or a game of something.

But she nodded eagerly. "Yes."

"Well?" he asked.

"Why do certain herbs have to be plucked during a certain time?" she asked quietly and hoped that nobody minded that she knew so much already. Since the books were, well, not allowed.

"Rose!" Mummy exclaimed. "What have you read?"

"I believe," the man said in his nice, kind voice, deep and reassuring, "your daughter had asked a very intelligent question."

And then he smirked at Mummy before he focused on her again.

xx

"I think the train's dead now," Hugo said in a sad voice, looking at the damaged front of one of the trains. "But the people are all healthy, right?"

Ophelia nodded. She liked playing with Hugo. He understood what she wanted to play. But, for the past few minutes, or maybe a little longer, she was incredibly thirsty and didn't think she could talk. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth.

But it was rude to ask. At least Mummy had said that (or 'your mother' as Daddy used to say). Daddy had never explained. They had never been to anyone's house before. With Mummy, yes. Plenty of people. But never such nice people and there were never children to play with before. Oh, but she loved Hugo already.

But to ask him? She couldn't do that.

She frowned. Besides, Daddy had said that the second most important rule was (the first one was never to talk to a stranger and to listen to what Daddy said), never to take anything from strangers.

Now, Hugo wasn't a stranger, really, but she couldn't just ask him for something to drink, could she? Just a little water would be enough. Or maybe pumpkin juice. Ophelia loved pumpkin juice.

When Hugo had come to play, Daddy had just let two glasses of pumpkin juice appear and she and Hugo had been able to drink whenever.

She closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated hard on seeing a glass of cold, lovely orange-coloured pumpkin juice. Daddy had explained that if she really concentrated on something, maybe she could do magic as well.

But nothing happened and she felt tears stinging in her eyes. She didn't want to cry. Not in front of Hugo. Not in the house of strangers. Mummy had said that. 'Just sit quietly,' she had said and sometimes, had given her one of those earpieces and when you put them on, music or a story came out of it. But not always. And then there were strange noises.

"I'm thirsty," Hugo said suddenly and stood in front of her. "Let's go."

She could not believe her luck! He was thirsty? Maybe she would be getting something as well. Especially when Daddy – oh...

He had not left, had he? She had been so focused on Hugo and the trains that he could just have left. Leaving her alone.

No, Daddy wouldn't do that. He would say good bye. Or would have sent his horse as he always did when she was still sleeping and she was in the apothecary.

She nodded dumbly and followed Hugo, muttering in her head, 'please let Daddy be there, please let Daddy be there,' over and over again. If he wasn't there, she probably could not stop the tears and that would be – horrible.

Hugo, instead, strode leisurely into another room. It looked like a kitchen.

And Daddy was there – but...

He sat on a chair and was talking to Hugo's sister. And he used the Sirfather-voice. He had never used it with somebody else but her. Not even with Hugo. And she listened to him so nicely and smiled and looked cute and he talked and she listened and he only paid attention to that girl and had not even seen her come in.

Oh no. He would change her. Would take this girl home and would leave her here. And as much as she liked Hugo, she didn't want to be without her daddy any more. She couldn't. No.

Panic was rising in her chest. Cold, sweaty panic that showed on her forehead and in her palms and she did not remember that she was thirsty. Daddy was leaving her behind. That was why he had taken her. That was why she had been allowed to play with Hugo. To see if there was this better girl and leave her here. With strangers.

She knew there was a sound coming from her mouth but she did not know how it sounded and she tried very hard to keep the tears from rolling into her eyes and from there down her cheeks but there was nothing she could do.

Daddy didn't want her any more. He wanted this girl because she was so nice and sat there on another floor, listening and Ophelia always dangled her legs and this girl didn't and Daddy didn't even see her standing there and she made another sound and because she could not cry in the house of strangers, she made a dash for the door and out of the kitchen.

She did not want to stay there without Daddy.

xx

"Excuse me," he said immediately after he had explain, in all detail how various plants had various characteristics during their growth and his Ophelia had come into the kitchen and had darted out, almost immediately. Without saying a word. She was usually not that way.

"Oh dear," he heard Jonathan Granger say when he rushed into the corridor and saw his Ophelia – his girl, fighting with the front door, trying to get it open.

"Where are you going?" he asked coldly and she turned around and looked very scared and tears were running down her cheeks and she trembled and pressed herself against the door. "Ophelia," he said gentler and moved to her.

"No," she cried. "You leave me alone."

He shook his head. "I'm right here, Ophelia," he said and he tried to sound calming.

"No, you like this girl and I'm not even chewing liver and beans and always talk to Squiffy and you say not to and yoe explain to her and will leave me here with them and..."

She did not make sense. Not in the slightest but his girl was distressed – and there was only one thing to do, he had experienced, in moments like this.

In moments like this, it was best to pick her up – and to hold her. And he did. Even though she used her little hands to try and push him away and kicked him a little in the upper thigh (a close miss – that one was for sure) and he managed to get a hold of her and lifted her into his arms and looked at her closely. "What's this nonsense?" he asked gently and held her sobbing, trembling body close.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews and the encouragement!**_

_**I think this is a new record, even for me. I wrote this chapter in less than two hours (1 hour, 45 minutes, minus three (yes, stone me!) cigarette breaks. I should be in despair more often. **_

_**No, seriously – have you ever noticed that when you're already lying on the floor, people kick you even more? (Figuratively, of course) **_


	25. Chapter 25

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

She clung to him as if her life depended on it. Her legs wrapped around his middle, her little arms around his neck, her face hidden in the fabric of his frock coat on his shoulder. He just held her tight. She didn't care much for patting or stroking in those moments, he knew. It was the same when she came to his bed at night after a nightmare. She just wanted to be held, wanted to know he was there.

At least that was what he thought. And if he interpreted this correctly, she was afraid of losing him.

The dunderheaded girl. Didn't she know that he was a possessive bastard who never let anything go that belonged to him? And Ophelia most certainly belonged to him, no matter what, she was his. His. And change her for Granger's girl? Why should he do that?

Didn't Ophelia understand that he had merely answered those questions of hers because he knew that it would annoy Granger deeply. And well, he was a little bit interested how much such a young girl could know when she had her nose in the books all day long but had no idea of practical brewing.

"Don't want to leave you, Daddy," she sobbed into his shoulder and he had to tighten his hold on her a little. And he tilted his head downwards, wanted to whisper in her ear, as he usually did when he had something of importance to say – something that not everyone was supposed to hear, something that was for her, and for her only.

"I won't leave you and you won't leave me," he whispered, "I don't know what gave you the idea," he added solemnly.

"But you" she sobbed. "used Sirfather-voice," she hiccuped and clung closer, her arms almost strangling him.

"I did what?" he asked quietly – and had quite forgotten about the audience they had. Every single Granger and Weasley in the house was watching the pair.

"Sirfather-voice," she repeated and he still did not know what it meant. He hadn't been Sirfather for quite a while. And what was a Sirfather-voice? He had used a kinder voice than usual to speak to the Mini-Granger – but just to annoy the adult Granger. But how could he explain that to his girl? Maybe this was what Ophelia meant – the Sirfather-voice was the kind voice. That was her logic. He had spoken in that voice when he had still been Sirfather and he needed to calm her and make her trust him.

And now, in her little head, this kind voice was the Sirfather-voice and since he did not, as a rule, use that voice when he spoke to customers. He had not used it when Granger and her son had come to see Ophelia. He had, in all honesty, only ever used it with her.

"Oh Ophelia," he said gently and stroked over her hair once while she was half sitting on his arm, and half clinging to him like a little monkey. "I do not want to exchange you for anyone else," he whispered in her ear.

She looked up at him, tear-stained cheeks and all and another big, fat tear was rolling down her cheek. "I'm your girl?" she whispered hoarsely and he – he had to, really – smiled a little. It was more a twitching of the corners of his mouth, but she knew he was smiling. She sobbed and buried her face in his neck.

"Of course you're my girl," he pushed his nose in her hair and dropped a kiss on those waves and he knew that the smile widened. His girl was just as possessive as he was.

And Severus Snape knew that he was now part of a club. The father-daughter-club. He was member of a family. His family. It was small, tiny, really, just him and his girl but it was a family. Even when his parents had still been alive, he had not felt part of a family. Now he was. He was head of a family and that thought – it startled him. It puzzled him. It confused him.

It was new. It was terrifying. It was beautiful.

He looked up suddenly. And groaned inwardly.

Granger senior, Mother Granger, Granger, the Weasley girl, the Weasley boy – all staring at them, at him and his daughter who still played little monkey and did not look up.

He had not wanted this. He did not want anyone to see how deep the affection between him and her ran. He had not wanted them to know. But – it had, apparently, just happened.

'And so what?' he thought suddenly. He loved his girl. Not that he would say that in front of them – but what did he care? For the first time in his life, he had something wonderfully steady, someone who truly belonged to him. And those Grangers?

He had nothing to do with him. Maybe after that episode today, Ophelia's wish to play with the Weasley boy had lessened and they could go back to their quiet existence. In the apothecary. Him and her. Their family. No intruders. No one who was staring interestedly. No one who would gossip over dinner about them afterwards.

No, this was not their world. During their dinners, Ophelia talked about the people she had seen and what she thought of them. Or she talked about the potion they had brewed. And he made remarks but mostly just listened.

He would make her read a bit after dinner, she would take a bath and he helped, and then, he would bring her to bed. That was how they did it. He would enlarge her bed a bit, sat on it, and she snuggled up to him, in her night clothes, and he would read some more until she was almost falling asleep. He had learned to tuck her in, to kiss her good night and afterwards, when she was in bed, he made himself comfortable on a chair or on the old couch and read a bit with a cup of tea before he went to bed himself. That was their way.

No big, boisterous family dinner. It was quiet and he liked it quiet.

"Ophelia, we'll go home now," he whispered in her ear and felt her nod against his neck. "Will you say good bye?" She shook her head. "Yes, you will. Say thank you and good bye and we'll go."

Slowly, she looked up – and he knew she would not dare to look at anyone in particular. "Thank you and good bye," she said in a small voice.

"Are you going already?" Granger – Hermione asked softly.

"Yes," he said, his voice icy cold. "We have to," he nodded at everyone, especially Jonathan Granger. "Good bye Mister Granger, Missus Granger, Miss Granger. Good bye Miss Weasley, Mister Weasley," he nodded again, and by simply lifting his wand, the front door was open and he strode outside, his girl clinging to him.

xx

Hermione stood dumbstruck. Too shocked to move. She had known before that Snape was a loving father, though it had taken her a while to grasp the concept – even realise something like this was possible – but this was beyond believable.

She wondered what Ron would say if she told him – and then remembered that she couldn't any more. And didn't want to any more. He would say that she was insane and that she could not have possibly seen Snape, the evil git, cuddling and consoling his daughter, kissing her hair and stroking it and letting her wrap herself around him and let her half sit on his arm. She had clung to him like a little monkey and the way she had seen it, she had felt safe only there. She had bolted from the kitchen when she had seen him talking to Rose. And he had gone straight after her.

It was intriguing. Why was she clinging to her father in that way? Where had she suddenly come from and how had she formed an attachment so quickly? And who was her mother?

"Oh dear," her father said suddenly. "And any of you doubt he loves that girl?"

She looked at him and noticed her mother staring as well. And her children. And they certainly didn't have to hear that. "Rose? Hugo? Will you go upstairs and clean up your room? It looked a right mess this morning," she said sternly – with the look she had perfected over the years with Ronald. Stern, forbidding (his words, not hers) and demanding. Both of them grimaced but grumblingly, stomped up the stairs and Hermione turned back to her parents.

"No, I don't doubt it but it is odd, isn't it?"

"No," her mother said suddenly. "It's simple."

"It is?" both her and her father said at the same time.

"I thought I was the only one who saw it," her dad said.

"No, John, you're not. And don't be so smug," her mother replied flippantly. "He's afraid and not used to showing affection."

"Finally," her father said.

"What do you mean finally?" her mother quipped.

"Shall we have more tea?" Hermione interjected. "Before you _finally_ start more bickering?"

Both her parents pulled a face at her but moved to the kitchen. And there – she groaned. Ophelia's robes. And Snape's robes. "Their robes are here," she said quietly.

"Well, send him an owl," Jonathan Granger suggested. "And don't you two dare to go there to deliver them."

"Why not?" Judith Granger raised her eyebrows.

"Because..."

"Because," Hermione sighed, "he probably wouldn't take well to any of us wandering into Knockturn Alley and into his apothecary again."

"Because he'd think we'd be intruding?" her mother asked rhetorically.

"Yes, and because he'd think we want something from him," her father answered. "Write him, and tell him that those robes are here and if he wants to fetch them or if one of us should bring it."

Hermione nodded. She understood much better since she had seen him like this now. He had a family. He was still the same man she had known – well, not known, but suspected him to be – private, most of all, and guarding said privacy with all he knew. In all the years at Hogwarts, even with the help of the Marauder's Map, she had never truly found out where exactly at the school he lived and while everyone always heard snippets about the teachers' private lives, nobody ever heard of Snape's. It was still the same way – living far off in Knockturn Alley, and probably not having much social contact – and only his daughter. No other family.

She knew his parents were dead – and that he had no siblings. He certainly did not have any friends at Hogwarts left – or, as far as he knew anywhere else. Snape did not strike her as a person with plenty of friends. Or any at all.

So, if he had his daughter, he would protect her fiercely from any outward influences. He had fought nail and tooth at first before he had allowed Ophelia to play with Hugo (well, she had too, but conveniently, she overlooked that small matter). He wanted to protect her – or, less nicely put – wanted to stop her from making any contacts outside of their small world. And when he had talked to Rose – she had been jealous.

Even though – that had not looked like a jealous tantrum. More like – fear.

She sat down at the kitchen table with her parents, sipped her tea and wondered. Wondered why suddenly, Severus Snape was so interesting – and why she even cared and wanted to learn more.

xx

She didn't want to let go, apparently. As soon as he had began apparating, he knew that both of them had left their robes at the Granger's house. But – he would not go back there. Not yet, not now. He would send her an owl, and tell her to send them back. It would be the simplest way.

He didn't want to disturb Ophelia even more by letting any member of the Grangers into his apothecary. She still occasionally hiccuped and her breathing wasn't as even as it should normally be. And she was trembling. Cold, obviously.

And he – the idiot father that he was – had forgotten her robes. No matter how distressed she was – or how much he wanted to leave that insanely sane place – he should have remembered her robes. And should not have made her go outside with only her skirt and jumper.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly and quickly walked around the corner to his apothecary. He had, of course, anti-apparition wards on the building. But he would be inside with her quickly and then put a Warming Charm on her (he wished he could do it now – but since he had to hold her, he could not) or maybe tuck her underneath a warmed blanket on the couch. She needed some rest.

She looked up from where she had buried her face in his neck and shook her head – then nodded, then looked around. "Will be home soon," she whispered, her teeth clattering.

He grumbled and tried to lift her with one arm, trying to access his wand. It would only be two more steps inside but he didn't want to risk her catching cold.

"Daddy, look!" she said suddenly and unwrapped one of her arms from around his neck, pointing to the entrance of his shop.

Severus Snape could not help but groan. This was not good.

_**xx**_

_**I am sorry if this chapter is not up to my usual standards. I did not sleep at all last night and still had to work eight hours, dealing with idiotic, dunderheaded customers who all seemed to want to pick a fight with me (since I was, due to lack of sleep, not quite myself, I just let them talk). I'm up now since 9 am my time yesterday (which would make this about 40 hours now that I am awake). I used to be able to stay up two nights in a row when I was 18 or so – but with 27, I suppose it's just not possible. Trouble is, I'm only exhausted and unfocused and not concentrated but not sure whether I'll be able to sleep. Argh. **_

_**Well, I hope this is not that bad – thank you for all your reviews and kind comments!**_


	26. Chapter 26

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

His steps quickened. The way Squiffy Mary Kelly lay on his doorsteps did not seem natural. She had never passed out before his apothecary before. Close – yes, but had always managed long enough to get the Sober Up potion, had always managed long enough, swaying, and her eyes rolling and unfocused, for him to tip it into her mouth.

And maybe she would have – if he hadn't been away. He cursed the Grangers inside his head once more. They had kept him there and Mary Kelly was suffering because of it. Or maybe...he needed to finish developing this potion.

Ophelia wriggled out of his arms and as soon as her little feet touched the ground, she ran towards Mary Kelly and knelt down. "Daddy, she's cold," she said alarmingly, fear in her eyes. "She needs to be warmed."

Severus was by her side and pressed his finger against her neck – there was a pulse but the smell coming from her was enough to make anyone drunk. He pulled Ophelia to her feet and when she looked at him angrily, and told him that "We have to help her," he raised his wand and pointed it at her.

"What are you doing?" Ophelia poked his side angrily. "Don't hex her."

He grimaced. "I will not hex her."

"Do you bring her inside? She's cold."

He nodded. "Yes," he replied and opened the door first, before he levitated her inside.

"What does she have?" Ophelia asked as she followed him and Mary Kelly's floating form. He locked and warded his door and put the drunk, passed out woman with the dirty face, fingers, nails, long matted hair, scruffy clothes on the counter. He couldn't put her on the floor – Ophelia would be too close and would probably really get drunk from the stench. Or sick.

"That, Ophelia," he said slowly, "is what happens when you drink too much alcohol."

"She dead, Daddy?" she asked – afraid, evidently, and ran around the counter, pulling her stool out and standing on it immediately.

"No, she's not dead," he replied darkly.

"Does she need a potion?" Ophelia asked curiously.

"Yes," he pushed Mary Kelly's eyelids apart and looked at her eyes for a moment. "Sober Up and Strengthening Solution and A Fever-Reducer."

"Is she sick, Daddy?"

"She has a fever, Ophelia," he replied, conjuring a thermometer and with a little force, put it into the unconscious woman's mouth and when he looked up again, his daughter had a vial of Sober Up Potion in her hand. It was on the top shelf and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "How did you get that?"

She shrugged. "I wanted it and it fell into my hand," she explained, pointing at the place where he stored the vials for Mary Kelly.

'My little witch,' he thought with a smirk. She was quite talented, had, without being very afraid, only to help someone else, used accidental magic – only it wasn't that accidental. She had wanted the vial – and had probably concentrated on it, the way he had taught her to do, and she had it now. Rushing towards him – handing it to him.

"Here," she said and smiled before she stepped onto her stool again. "Don't know the other two what they look like."

He nodded quickly and summoned the other two vials, almost missing that Ophelia had taken Mary Kelly's hand and was stroking it quickly. He would not be able to put that woman back onto the street if Ophelia, traumatised by this day as she was, bonded even more with her. No, now, she kept the hand in one of her hands and stroked with the other, as he tipped one potion after the next into her mouth and made sure she swallowed.

"Will she be alright?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes," he growled and put a smile on her face again. If it was simply a case of drunken stupor and fever from hypothermia and being outside too long, he could sober her up, keep her warm, give her the right potions and she would be right as rain again.

If she still had a place to live. If not, and his daughter found that out – he didn't even want to finish that thought. She would probably insist on...

A coughing, sounding not quite healthy, pulled him out of his thoughts and made him look at the woman lying on his counter. He would have to disinfect that – as well as disinfect his little witch. His compassionate little witch.

"M-m-master Snape," she stuttered and tried to sit up.

"No," he said and Ophelia was still clinging to her hand.

"Wh-what happened?" she asked.

"That's what I'd like to know."

"Are you cold, Squiffy?" Ophelia asked and continued her stroking.

"No, sweetheart. Warm and cold at the same time," Mary replied, lying back down heavily. "Master Snape, how did I come here?"

"You were passed out in front of _my_ apothecary," he replied icily. "I had hoped you could fill in the gaps."

She shook her head. "What time is it?"

"Around 5," he answered quickly. "And I suggest as soon as the dizziness stops, you go home."

She chuckled suddenly. Wildly, her eyes turned upwards and he could almost only see the white. "Home is outside," she laughed.

"You had a place, did you not?" he asked, carefully eyeing his daughter but Ophelia was still stroking the hand and looking at her – as if she knew that she was close to being insane. Or just desperate. He wasn't sure which.

"Had being the operative word, Master Snape. Now, I only have, well, this," she pointed at herself and sat up slower now and managed upright even. Slowly, she smiled at Ophelia, and disentangled the little hands from her own. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Ophelia smiled but said nothing and he looked at her, standing next to his child.

"How much do I owe you?" Squiffy Mary Kelly asked.

"Do you want to go?" Ophelia asked. "But you can't go. You're dirty and you need a bath."

He had to hide his grin this time. Yes, his little witch was telling the truth but on the other hand – Ophelia was doing exactly what he had not wanted her to do. And then, he could not let Mary Kelly go. Not back outside. Hypothermia would turn into pneumonia with the melting snow and the cold outside.

"Oh sweetheart," Mary said, sighing. "Master Snape? I still have some money, I could..."

He shook his head. "My daughter is correct, you cannot go out. Especially with those potions in your system. You'd be unconscious after even one sip of whatever alcoholic beverage it is you prefer. The Sober Up in combination with the Strengthening Potion is difficult enough as it is."

"But...," she paled under the specks of dirt on her face. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"St Mungo's has a..."

She laughed. Hysterically so. She laughed so hard, so much, that even Ophelia turned to him, grasping a bit of his coat and holding on to it.

"Silence," he said authoritatively and the sobered up woman stopped almost immediately, looking as Ophelia had done earlier – frightened. Like a frightened child.

"Excuse me, Master Snape," she said as soon as she could, "I will go."

"No," Ophelia grabbed her hand. "I wanted to sleep in Daddy's bed anyway and if you don't want to go home, you can stay in my bed."

All the things he had taught her – about cunning, about sneakiness – all out of the window in the face of a poor, suffering woman. Granted, a woman she had taken a liking too, but a strange woman nevertheless.

"I cannot let you go outside again," he said gruffly. "And since you do not have the money nor inclination to go somewhere else...but trust me, there will be protection charms on all our valuables."

The woman shook her head and her expression turned from frightened and a little grateful – to angry. "That's what everyone thinks," she spat and swung her legs over the counter and slid down on the floor, her legs, obviously still shaky. "Thank you and I will pay you back."

He rolled his eyes and felt the persistent tugging on his coat but for a moment, he just stood rooted to the spot, not able to decide whether he should really go after her and drag her back inside.

He had absolutely no duty towards this person. Absolutely none whatsoever.

xx

"Mum? Dad? This is Henrietta," Ronald Weasley had the hand of his new sort of steady girlfriend tightly grasped in his and she stood next to him in the kitchen of the Burrow, a sweet blush on her face, her palms ever so slightly sweaty. Of course she was nervous about meeting Ronald's parents. She had heard so much about them, had even known Molly from when she had been a child, but this was only once or twice that she had seen her at all.

Ronald knew that she was afraid and he had to admit that he feared his mother's outrage and anger as well, but there were rumours in the Ministry as well – and if he had heard them, and Harry, so would his father. And his father was not known for keeping secrets from his mother. In fact, he did not doubt for a moment that his parents even had secrets.

And she would be even more angry when she found out from someone else. No, he would get this over with, would bring Henrietta back to Godric's Hallow and make love to her in his bed the rest of the day long. She was a sweet girl, kept his robes ironed, and knew all the perfect little household spells that made life simpler. Henrietta, for instance, let her magic do the cooking and the washing up and in the meantime, talked to him, or did something else when she was with him.

Hermione had never done that. She had always cooked, had always been busy, had wanted to tell him all about her work or what the children had done.

And still, he missed her. In a sense. He missed her in the sense that he had been able to always be himself. She merely raised a mocking eyebrow when his bodily functions overtook him (and well, better out than in) but had said nothing and he knew he did not have to hide anything. Henrietta was different there – it was new, and he had the feeling that he had to, sort of, impress her. Make a good impression whereas with Hermione – well, she had known him forever. He could be Ron.

Besides, he was not sure whether he loved Henrietta. She was good in bed and well, those household spells were something else. And she was beautiful. More beautiful than Hermione could have ever been but something was missing. He wasn't sure what.

Maybe he wasn't missing Hermione but his children. He saw them all too seldom, and maybe, if he did love Henrietta, he could maybe take them. Hermione was busy with her career in any case and letting his children grow up with Muggles? He liked Muggles, but they were so different. And his children were witch and wizard. They had to learn all about the Wizarding World in order to understand him and his family. They had to grow up with spells and hexes and jinxes since, well, they would use them all their life long.

He smiled at his girlfriend. And hoped that this would last. With her, he could give his children the education, the bringing up they needed before entering Hogwarts – Muggles were really great but a visit or two a year to Hermione's parents would be sufficient. Who needed to know what a rubber duck was for anyhow.

His mother, suddenly, huffed, and brushed past him, out of the kitchen and he heard her stomping on the stairs while his father smiled at his new girlfriend. "I have to apologise for my wife's behaviour," he said gently. "She did not expect that."

Henrietta nodded. "I suppose it would come as a sort of surprise but Ronald thought that.."

"I heard it already," he still smiled and moved towards them. "However, I did not tell your mother," he fixed him with his gaze. "And she was talking about her grandchildren all day today."

"Why?" Ron asked and his father arched his brows.

"It's your wedding anniversary tomorrow," he said and, with another apology, followed his wife and Henrietta stared at him – shock written all over her face.

xx

Daddy simply did not do anything. He just stood there and didn't he understand that Squiffy couldn't sleep outside? That she needed a bed? And a bath? And food? And a hug, maybe? After she was clean, of course. Holding her hand had been okay, but her clothes were very, very dirty.

"Daddy!" she huffed indignantly when he still stood there, staring at the door and when he didn't react after she had counted to three, she let go of his coat and bolted. He would be angry with her, yes, but she had to save, Squiffy, didn't she? Daddy said that Squiffy was sad – and Ophelia had decided that nobody should be sad alone.

She had been sad just earlier because she thought Daddy didn't want her any more and she knew that it had felt horrible and that there had been this stabbing pain in her chest and stomach when she had stood alone in front of the door of Hugo and wanted to run away because she had been scared alone. Ophelia did not want Squiffy to feel this kind of pain alone. She did not. Squiffy had to be with them if she didn't have any other family. And Daddy had said that all of her family was dead.

She almost fell down the one step leading to the apothecary and had a moment to look around as she caught her footing.

"Squiffy!" she shouted when she saw the woman staggering around the corner. "Squiffy!" she shouted again and ran, as fast as she could, towards her.

She finally turned around and looked at Ophelia. "You should be inside without your robes, sweetheart."

"My name is not sweetheart but Ophelia and you should be inside without your robes as well," she replied petulantly. "And Daddy said that you cannot drink alcohol to be less sad because of the potions and I was sad earlier but Daddy made it better because he was there and you have to be with someone."

Squiffy Mary Kelly knelt down to be on the same level with her and Ophelia saw that her eyes were shining – wetly. "Are you crying?" she asked in a tiny voice and the older woman shook her head – just as a tear trickled down her dirty cheek.

"You are crying," she said when she felt a heavy hand descend on her shoulder and she turned around rapidly to look into the thunderous face of her father. "Daddy, look," she said and pointed at Squiffy. He had to explain. He had to make Daddy take her inside. Make her take a bath, make her eat and tuck her in. Just as he did with her. That would make her less sad, she was sure of it. "Please?" she said and grasped Mary Kelly's hand. "I wanted to sleep in your bed anyway. Please?"

xx

Of course she would have slept in his bed and she looked at him so hopefully, so beseechingly, that he could only sigh.

"Missus Kelly, come with me," he said gruffly – knowing that he could not let her sleep on the streets. No matter how much he thought this woman was not his duty, his responsibility. Ophelia had just turned it into just his. Ophelia had made that woman his responsibility. By liking her. By caring for her.

And he would slip this woman a sleeping draught (after, of course, as Ophelia had said, she had taken a bath and he had would make her use spells to clean her clothes) and the next morning, she would be gone. And that day had already been insane enough – letting a strange woman sleep in his daughter's room wouldn't make it more insane.

Though he would make sure than nothing could be taken out from his flat by her. "I don't have all day," he said snarkily and grabbed Ophelia's hand, who in turn, had taken Mary Kelly's hand and he pulled both of them inside.

It would not do for anyone to see that he took the drunk in. Just because he had gone soft because of his daughter.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews!**_

_**I'm not sure whether you will now flame me for Severus being OOC - or maybe Molly. Or Ron. Or anyone. Please feel free. Not content with that chapter in any case (I think I need to see a doctor about that insomnia - only 6 hours after 43 hours awake? Not good.)  
**_


	27. Chapter 27

_**The usual disclaimers apply  
xx**_

Slipping the Sleeping Draught into the Pumpkin Juice had not been difficult. Even Ophelia missed him doing it – even though she was standing right next to him, and helped him preparing a few sandwiches when Mary Kelly had been in the bath. No, slipping it in had not been difficult.

But, after she had emerged from the bath, clean, hair washed, clothes clean, scrubbed, it had been difficult. Very difficult. With the dirt vanished, her embarrassment-level had risen and she had wanted to disappear again.

If it hadn't been for Ophelia, the woman had probably bolted as soon as she could. Without food and sleep and straight to the next Silvergin bottle. But his little witch had held her back – and quite efficiently at that. It had not been a Slytherin tactic – not at all. No self-respecting Slytherin (not even an almost 5-year-old) would plant herself in front of the door and stand there, with her hands on her hips and glare. Well, she had the glaring down pat now. And Squiffy Mary Kelly – who at that moment had not been squiffy at all, she let herself be pulled back into their kitchen, had eaten two sandwiches – or had rather devoured them but had eyed the pumpkin juice with disdain.

No, Severus Snape had absolutely not alcoholic beverage in his flat. He did not believe in drinking in his own four walls. If he had felt, in the past, the urge to drink, he had gone to a muggle bar. And ever since he had Ophelia – he had not been able to leave his flat without her anyway. He would most certainly not leave her alone.

So, he had glared – Ophelia had glared (though why he wasn't sure) and Mary Kelly had drunk the juice. Five minutes later, her head had fallen hard on the table and soft snores were heard immediately.

"Daddy?" Ophelia had asked and he had sneered.

"She was tired, I suppose," he had replied and with Ophelia's help, he had levitated her into his daughter's bed. It hadn't been late and he had read a bit with Ophelia but the girl was unfocused and her eyes kept on trailing to her bedroom and she had been jumpy.

And she had insisted on going in to see her sleep in her bed before she would get ready herself. And it had surprised him how she had acted in there. She had obviously paid attention, at least once, that he came to see his girl when she slept before he went to bed himself (and yes, he had not planned on ever letting her finding out. It was a sentimental thing to see if she slept peacefully, to make sure she was alright before he went to bed but he loved her. He had only said it once, but he did). She, just as he always did, crept closer and brushed across Mary Kelly's hair once, pressed a kiss on her forehead and tiptoed out.

Severus wasn't sure how old Mary Kelly was – but the matted hair had hidden the greying streaks rather perfectly and even during sleep, there were lines on her cheeks, around her eyes. But calculating back, he gathered that she had to be at least ten years older than him. Had lived in the Alley already during the Dark-Snake-Man-beginning with V but she had not been quite so deeply in the clutches of alcohol then. Fifteen years then, maybe since her children had died. And then she had been around 50. That would make her – 65. Easily. If not a little older.

The life he could have had. If he hadn't had the talent for brewing – if he hadn't had the means to establish his apothecary. If he hadn't been that good, it could have gone the way she had gone. Or worse. He knew. His life had depended solely on brewing. It was his way of keeping himself sane, and of putting food on the table and clothes on his back. He had been able to support himself – and when the need to drown all the evil memories had grown too big, he had brewed, complicated potions, had developed new ones, had taken his mind away from images roaming through his mind, flashing in front of his inner eye.

No, he was a lucky one compared to Squiffy Mary Kelly. But then again, he had only lost one person he had loved. And one he had liked a lot. And had gained now – another one he loved. More than he had ever imagined to being able to love Lily. More than he had ever imagined he could love anyone.

It was another smile, he knew but it was gone before Ophelia could see and she danced around him and grinned and seemed happy.

"She's safe and sleeping, Daddy," she said and bounced up until he reached down and she could jump into his arms and scrambled up sort of, until she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. "Will she still be sad in the morning?" she asked innocently, her legs around his waist.

"Yes," he answered gruffly. "This will not go away because she can sleep in your bed."

"But I'm not sad any more," she argued. "And I was really, really, really sad this morning."

He pulled her a little away without actually setting her on her feet and looked into her eyes. "We will go to bed now," he said, even though he had meant to say something completely different. But he did not know how to reassure someone, not even his own daughter. He did not know how to make her believe that she was the only thing in his life that counted. Apart from the potions and the apothecary. He couldn't tell her. He wasn't a man who said those things in any case.

"No, Daddy," she whined a little. "I'm not tired at all," she exclaimed happily, and wriggled down from his arms. "I'm awake!" she cried (and without Sleeping Potion, Mary Kelly would probably have woken up) and bounced and jumped and ran and skipped. From the kitchen to the living room, into the bathroom, into his bedroom, back into the living room, into the kitchen, back to where he stood in front of her bedroom.

"Will we keep her?" she asked hopefully.

"You cannot keep a human being," he grumbled.

"No, I know," she rolled her eyes, "but she can stay here and I'll sleep in your bed from now on."

"You'd like that," he muttered and picked her up quickly and carried her into the bathroom and set her down on her feet in there. "Wash up, brush your teeth and your nightgown is there," he pointed at it, hanging on the magically heated wall.

"But Daddy," she complained, "I'm not tired."

He merely looked at her sternly and pulled the jumper of her head. "Ophelia, now!" he said and sat down on the rim of the tub and watched her as she jumped out of her skirt. Why she was so happy – he didn't know. She had been so sad, so desperate this afternoon. Had thought that she would lose him.

Maybe – she was realising that he would not exchange her for anything in the world. For nothing.

Severus Snape watched his daughter brush her teeth, standing on one leg, balancing on it, then changing it, and balancing on the other leg.

Exuberant little girl. How he could have ever fathered such a happy, content child was completely beyond his grasp.

xx

Ophelia didn't want to go to bed. No matter what, she didn't want to go to bed. Squiffy had a safe place to sleep and she was allowed – officially – to sleep in Daddy's bed all night long.

Sleeping in Daddy's bed was great. He always warmed her feet and kept her in his arms and hugged her until she slept and he let her wake her with a kiss or she was allowed to put her fingers into his nostrils when she felt like it and he would tickle her and then cuddle her.

Oh, how she loved her Daddy.

But being with Hugo that afternoon – it had been great. Until Daddy had been nice to that girl and she had been scared. She still was scared but not as much. He had cuddled her again. And had told her that she was his girl. It was great. He loved her. But – she didn't ever want to leave him.

Still – it was unfair...

"Daddy?" she asked after she had carefully wiped the left-over tooth-paste from the corners of her mouth.

"Yes?" he drawled, that smirk on his face when she began a question this way.

"Why are you not married to Mummy? Did you get a divorce too? Like Hugo's Mummy and Daddy?"

He waited for a moment – he always did when she asked a question. He thought. Clearly. And he took her question seriously. He always did. She liked that about Daddy.

"Your mother and I," he said slowly, "were not married."

Not married – mh. Alright. "And a grandma and grandpa? Like Hugo? Where are they? I want some."

He sighed. He always did that when she asked a particularly hard question. Maybe he didn't know. But everybody had parents, or not?

"Erm," he said and he never said erm. Maybe it was really a hard question and he did not know about Mummy's parents. But she had never seen them. At least she couldn't remember. "Your grandparents are dead as well," he said slowly.

"But I want some," she replied petulantly. "I want to."

He looked at her deeply but said nothing. Instead he only grabbed her nightie from the always-warm-wall and dangled it in front of her. She grimaced and finished undressing just before he pulled the warm, cosy nightie over her head. And Ophelia had an idea.

"Can Squiffy be my grandma?" she asked innocently and looked at him in the way she knew he could not say no. Only – it didn't seem to work now.

"No."

"But Daddy – Hugo told me he has four grandparents and I have no. It's unfair," she frowned. "I want grandparents."

He nodded slowly. "You have none, Ophelia. And remember when I told you that life is not fair?"

"Yes, but I want it to be."

"It isn't," he shook his head and picked her up again. "Bed."

She shook her head. "But Daddy..."

"Ophelia!" he said angrily. He really was angry now. But she wanted grandparents as well. She wanted them. "You do not have grandparents and Missus Kelly will leave in the morning again. She has a place of her own and..."

"But she said she lived outside," she argued fiercely. "Can't let her live on the street. It's cold!"

He was quiet, suddenly, and carried her into his bed and let her fall down. She bounced on the bed twice before she rested on his side and took a deep breath of the smell on his pillow. It smelled like Daddy and she loved that smell. Just like him.

He undressed as well and she liked to watch. He had so many buttons on his clothes and he always used his wand to open them. It was really awesome to see them popping open.

And, well, he would not say more about grandparents so she knew it was over. But – a moment later, he had disappeared into the bathroom and she knew she would have to stop being so wanting if she wanted to hug him before sleeping. She couldn't have grandparents. But maybe, maybe, she could get something else. And obviously, he did not want Squiffy to stay. Which was sad but...she could make sure Squiffy was alright. As long as she was still there every morning, she could see it. And if she couldn't have Squiffy as a grandma and couldn't have any other grandmas or grandpas, then, maybe, maybe, she could have something else. A dog, maybe. Or a cat. Or a snake! A snake would be lovely!

And her birthday was soon. Maybe, if she was really nice and kind and quiet and everything, he would give her a pet-snake for her birthday.

She smiled contentedly when he came back into the bedroom, in his shorts and t-shirt.

"Can I have a pet instead?" she asked when he slipped into bed.

"Instead of what?" he asked and rolled around to face her.

"Instead of grandparents, Daddy," she replied, rolling her eyes again. He should have known that. They had talked about grandparents for the last five minutes!

He groaned and kissed the top of her head. "Sleep now," he said gruffly.

She hummed and snuggled into his arms. "Tell me a story, Daddy," she whispered and inhaled his smell again. It was so much stronger than on his pillow and she adored it. "Please?"

He sighed. "My little witch," he held her tightly. "A story?"

She nodded and he began – slowly, sweetly, in an even kinder voice than his Sirfather-voice and she knew she was the only one who would ever hear it.

xx

She sighed and rolled the fountain pen between her fingers. This was difficult. She wasn't sure why but her Rosie and her Hugo – they had been odd. Rosie had not been able to stop herself from gushing about how much he knew and how patiently he had answered her questions. And Hugo had been afraid that he was never allowed to play with Ophelia again since she had cried so much and they had left so quickly.

Her father had grinned the rest of the night and her mother had poked him time and time again.

And Hermione herself?

She could not ban the image from her head when he had cuddled, held his daughter, had whispered in her ear and had told her things and his hands had soothed her by stroking her hair, her back.

It was a different person and she had understood that she should not allow herself to confuse the man she had known back in school with the man she had seen earlier. With the man she had experienced, who had talked to her father, who had bounced cups and saucers with her because he wanted to keep his child safe. Different.

And she would write that letter to a different person.

She stroked the owl sitting on her desk briefly before she put pen to paper. Different man. Not Professor Snape. Not evil git of the dungeons.

She sighed and began to write.

_Dear Mister Snape,_

_As you had to depart rather abruptly, and I do hope that Ophelia is fine again, you forgot your and your daughter's robes at my parents house. I could shrink them and sent them to you or bring them back personally or if you would like to come over again, I will keep them safe for sure. _

_My son was very disturbed and is afraid that Ophelia is not his friend any more. I hope that this is not the case and that you will allow your daughter to play with Hugo again. He enjoyed it very much and I would be happy to have him play with her again. They seem to be good for one another. My daughter Rose was very taken with you and she had a lot more questions for me, some of which that I could not answer, I'm ashamed to say since they were so specific. _

_My parents were happy to have you here and they asked me to tell you to invite you to dinner soon. I hope you agree. _

_Best wishes,_

_Hermione Granger_

She tied the scroll to the leg of the owl and watched it fly away, just quickly before she looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table. Twelve five.

Her anniversary. Or had been. Now, now she was free, free with her children. An eerie feeling.

Still, no use thinking about it. She had her children and they were all that mattered. She would have them, keep them, love them and Ronald wasn't that interested in them anyway.

And suddenly, the image of Snape holding his daughter played in front of her inner eye.

xx

A pet?

He had always wanted a pet as a child. And why not give her one? He had briefly, yes, considered giving her a snake after the visit to the zoo but he knew, deep inside, that he was not ready to allow a snake into his household. But another pet? Was probably a good idea. Would teach her responsibility.

She was still pressed against him, and he had to hold her, had to kiss her brow and had to smell her. Just had to. His little witch.

A pet – they could handle a pet.

As long as he found someone who watched her when he went looking for one. She would get those things that he had always wished for when he had been a boy. She would not lack for anything. She would get all those things – within reason – that he had wanted and had never gotten. Because he was different from his parents. Because he – he loved her.

"I love you, my little witch," he whispered in her hair and she shifted in her sleep, sighing softly and smiling a little.

_**xx **_

_**Thank you for the reviews!  
**_

_**Now – for the first time – a quick word for all the lurkers out there: Please be brave and review! You do not have to review in English either – I can understand German very well, basic French and basic Italian. But please, just let me know you're there. **_

_**My regular reviewers: I love you! 'Nuff said. **_

_**A few explanations: The expression 'my little witch' is taken from one of my favourite books as a child. It is called (in German): Die Kleine Hexe and you would translate that with 'The Little Witch'. It's a wonderful book and even today, I love it!**_

_**I found it a bit odd that nobody had picked up on the name of Squiffy Mary Kelly yet. I cut the 'Jane' and gave her the name of the last victim of Jack the Ripper. ;)**_

_**More? No, not now. **_

_**Personal A/N: Will try and go to the doctor tomorrow. Even though – I'm not sure. My brother's birthday is tomorrow, we're redoing my grandmother's flat and my grandpa is in hospital and it's all so very much right now. Nope, not complaining. **_


	28. Chapter 28

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

The smell of something completely unfamiliar to that flat tickled his nose. It wasn't Ophelia – curled up next to him – he knew her smell and that was as much part of his place as the squashy old couch or the worn table in the kitchen. This scent, however, no, he was not used to smelling it. Not there.

He had recognised it immediately. It was breakfast at Hogwarts.

Bacon. Eggs. Fried Bread. Beans. Mushrooms.

None of the things he had at home. And since Ophelia was next to him – and under no circumstances allowed near the stove without his supervision (and she knew it! Had known it ever since she had accidentally put a finger on the hot stove and he had to summon the Burning Salve), there was only one possibility who was making breakfast. Well – two, really. But he did not have a House Elf and never would have one. Submissive little creatures had always annoyed him greatly. All that 'Yes, Master', 'Yes, Master', 'Right away, Master', 'Immediately, Master' – no. He could not stand that.

He had played that kind of game long enough himself.

So, that left one possibility: Mary Kelly.

Mary Kelly was making breakfast for them? How?

He had made a decision the night before – and in those minutes he had been awake during the night – he could not possibly let her stay.

But – he needed a test person for this new potion he was developing. And who would be better suited for the job than the very addict living in the Alley? If he was successfully getting her off the Silvergin, he did not doubt that he could cure any addiction. Besides, he did absolutely not doubt that in the foreseeable future, she would be lying in front of his shop again – and that was not good for the reputation of his shop. That that that was good in any case but he needed the money. And a drunk woman passed out on his doorstep would mean less customers – and those would mean less money.

He knew that night, that there was only one solution. Give the woman a roof over her head. Close by. Feed her the potion as soon as possible. See the development and make sure that, as long is took to take effect, that she was basically shut away.

There was, he had remembered, during the night, as his little witch had pushed herself up and he had woken with a lot of dark hair in his face, a coal shed in the back. Unused for years. And probably dirty as well – and draughty and cold and rather small.

But he was a wizard and he had a wand and had done a little redecorating, refurbishing when Ophelia had come to live with him and he knew his Extension Charms. He knew Charms that allowed him to keep her inside, he knew Charms that would not allow her to bring anything dangerous into the coal shed.

He had decided to take Ophelia out with him for a while and look at it and he would show her some real magic. But he had counted on her still being asleep.

Now, there was the smell of cooked breakfast in his nose and obviously, the addicted witch was up.

Slowly, he disentangled his little witch from beside him. Ophelia had a way of sleeping in his bed. It was a large bed. Large enough for two grown up people. But she was always pressed up against him. Or had her little arm thrown across his chest or stomach or her head on his shoulder or his arm or on his chest. Her little legs wrapped around one of his.

But she was sleeping there, peacefully, and cuddling his pillow when he had gotten up and he smiled again. Probably it wasn't that bad if nobody saw it. And she looked perfect sleeping there.

He dressed quietly and left his bedroom. As long as he did not go down to the shop, he did not leave a Patronus. She would find him then without being scared.

Mary Kelly stood in his kitchen, cooking. Without a wand. She just stood, in her now clean clothes, in front of the stove and flipped bacon.

He knew he was a silent walked – years and years of spying had taught him how to walk without anyone hearing him – if he wanted that. And now he did.

She was trembling, of course common since she was sober and had not had any potion but had sobered up naturally. That would cause her to tremble but she handled that cooking better than he ever had. Without a wand too.

"I hope you like a fry up," she said suddenly without looking up – her voice clearer than he had ever heard it before. "I just finish this and will be on my way."

He was surprised. If he didn't want to be heard – he wasn't heard. And yet, she had.

"Do you have a wand?" he asked.

"No," she replied in a no-nonsense manner and wiped her hands on a tea towel. "I sold it a few years back." He had never heard her this way. She was reasonable. Clear. Precise. And had turned to look at him. Her eyes were clear, shining, blue and she had pulled her brown-grey-streaked hair back. She looked old, yes, and had dark circles around her eyes but she seemed fitter than he had ever seen her. Awake. Almost well. Apart from the trembling and the once-in-a-while deep drawing of breath and – now – gulping down of water.

He nodded curtly. "I am developing a potion and if you agree to test it, I could give let you live in the back."

"What kind of potion?" she asked immediately and pulled the frying pan off the heat.

"It is a potion that will stop addiction," he replied calmly.

"Stop addiction?" she asked back. "No, I don't think so. Thank you."

"No thank you?" he spat. "If you want to throw your life further away, please do so. The door is over there and do not expect me to sell you any more of the potion you need every morning."

xx

Hermione breathed deeply. The children were away, school, nursery and her parents were working. She should have gone into the office that morning but she could just as well work from home.

Odd – she thought – she already thought of her parents' house as home again. Probably had never really stopped. Godric's Hallow had not been home. Even though, yes, she did have some happy moments there. The marriage to Ron hadn't been all bad. There had been good times.

But she was truly from another world and she only noticed that now. She found that, the older she got, the more she understood her parents' way of thinking. Easy fixes? No. And she had embraced the Wizarding World – but essentially, she was the child of Muggles. She was Muggleborn. And she liked being Muggleborn. She liked watching the telly with her children and she liked washing the dishes with her mother (despite the dishwasher). She liked cappuccino and chai latte. She liked Muggle clothes and she liked driving. She was selfish, probably, yes, but she wanted the best of both worlds.

She wondered, sitting on her parents' table, over her parchments and files, if Snape had received her letter yet. And if so, what he would answer. He was a one of those wizards that seemed to have made the transition from half-Muggle to full-wizard but he took his daughter to Muggle-things all over London. Maybe he wasn't the wizard she thought he was. Maybe he was still the half-blood. And maybe he wanted to show his daughter where her mother had come from. Whoever that was.

The little one, Ophelia, was absolutely cute. She was sweet, really. A bit afraid, yes, but sweet and looked so much like him.

She put her chin in her hand and thought about her. And Snape – and forgot to wonder why she was thinking about them at all and forgot all about her files, about the parchments, about where she was. It happened sometimes to her.

She was pulled out of her thoughts abruptly. A knock on the door. A knock on the front door? Everyone always used the bell – except...a witch or a wizard.

Snape! It would be Snape picking up the robes and she was alone there and could finally talk to him about what she had talked to with her father. That she was grateful too. That she wanted to thank him, and that she was sorry.

Hermione smiled and dashed to the door and flung it open.

Only – it wasn't Severus Snape at all.

xx

"Stop," he bellowed. "You do not want to stop drinking?"

Mary Kelly stared at him. "Would you want to? I may be drunk most of the time but I can still read. And I heard about you, Severus Snape. I've known about you before all of this happened. If you hadn't been so lucky, don't you think it would be you in my position? Would you want to stop drinking then if you'd be without your adorable daughter? Imagine you lose her now and then multiply that horror by three – wouldn't you want to forget?" she spat – tears beginning to shine in her eyes.

He didn't know what to say to this. Of course he had thought about it – about the great possibility that it could have been him. But he was offering her a home – and the end of her addiction and she didn't want to? That was plain stupidity and if there was one thing Severus Snape could not stand – it was stupidity.

"You will take the potion," he glared.

"Do you think you can tell me what to do, boy?" she glared back, "I am very grateful that you let me sleep here tonight and as a sign of my appreciation, I bought breakfast and cooked it. But I will not be treated as a..."

"And you did not buy alcohol?" he asked suddenly, startled out of his anger.

She grimaced. "Good bye, Master Snape."

"Missus Kelly," he groaned. "Take the coal shed. The potion is not ready and..."

"The coal shed?" she laughed hysterically. "The coal shed?"

"With charms and extensions on it, of course. I thought you'd prefer it to the streets," he spat.

She shook her head and handed him the tea towel. "Thank you so much for your hospitality," she nodded curtly and pushed past him.

"Are you going, Squiffy?" Ophelia stumbled out of his bedroom, her hair wild and tangled and she was still in her nightgown.

"Yes, sweetheart," she stopped just in front of the door and turned to face his daughter. "There's breakfast in the kitchen."

"But I want you to stay," she said and yawned and ran towards Mary Kelly. "Please? Just until breakfast is over?"

xx

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed and the smile that had been playing on the corners of her mouth fell completely. She had not expected him. And had absolutely no longing to see him either.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sure. Come in."

He looked as uncomfortable as he had always looked when he had to come into her parents' house. He disliked the electricity. Probably. Who knew exactly.

"Well?" she asked, leading him into the kitchen and gesturing him to sit down on the kitchen table. The same chair Snape had sat on the day before. She busied herself making tea – and waited for him to speak.

"I want to see more of the children," he said suddenly.

"Fine," she turned and smiled a little at him. "I'm sure they're happy to see more of their daddy."

"Yes," he said slowly and – until she had put the cup in front of him, said nothing. Only when she had sat down as well, he looked at her again and sighed. "I have a new girlfriend," he continued soberly.

"I heard rumours," she said evenly. Not that she cared. He could do whatever he wanted to do.

"It is quite serious, 'Mione. I took her home to the Burrow yesterday and introduced her to my parents."

"Good," she replied – not as evenly. She didn't care. Didn't he understand? "Do you want me to tell you that it's alright?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Then you just came here to tell me that you want to see the children more and that you have a new girlfriend?"

He shook his head again. "I'd like them to live with me and Henrietta."

xx

Severus Snape unrolled the parchment as he listened with half an ear to Ophelia telling Mary Kelly about a dream she had had that night.

His daughter was a dangerous specimen. Truly, truly dangerous. Persuasive with that smile of hers and those large eyes. On the other hand, he was relieved to see that he was not the only one who had fallen under the spell of his little witch.

Even Mary Kelly had, after a bit of wheedling (and it had been less Gryffindor, more Slytherin than before) agreed to at least look at the coal shed when he was finished with it.

And he would tell his Ophelia that there was the possibility of Mary Kelly always being like she was that morning. With the potion he was developing. Absolutely not doubt that the little witch could manage to persuade Mary Kelly to take it. He would have to make sure that one dose was enough. Would have to make sure that she did not have to take it regularly.

He smirked to himself. Ophelia was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

His eyes fell on the parchment. And the smirk disappeared from his face. Granger writing him? Reasonably? Inviting them to dinner? Why?

_**xx**_

_**Thank you for all your reviews! Thank you, thank you!**_


	29. Chapter 29

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

Hermione Granger hadn't laughed that much in years. Probably. But her ex-husband's thoughts were just that – laughable. The man who would not even change a nappy, who did not know what to do when one of his children had a scraped knee – no matter whether it was the consoling part or the healing charm (or – in rare cases – the Elastoplast), who loved his children, yes, but had spent the first few years of their lives at work during the day and every free weekend, he had taken them all to the Burrow. He had hardly spent any time alone with his children. And now he wanted to have them live with him and a woman she did not know at all?

And just who did he think she was even considering letting their children house with someone she had never even seen – let alone met – let alone approved of?

No – in short – this was all very, very ridiculous. And she had had so little reason to laugh lately – she had to. And couldn't stop. She knew she sounded a bit hysterical. But she had every reason to do so, didn't she?

It wasn't the fact, not at all, that a father wanted to have their children with him. If her parents had divorced, she would have wanted to stay with her Daddy. But not Ron. And with a new girlfriend. Whom she would certainly not allow to see her children as long as she hadn't approved.

"Something funny?" he asked suddenly and she still giggled. Couldn't stop. Couldn't stop at all.

"Yes," she giggled. "Do you really think I would allow my children to let my children live with you and a strange woman?"

"Henrietta is not a strange woman," he argued, his ears turning pink.

"Have I met her?"

"No," he shook his head, "but she's a good girl and you'll like her."

Her mood changed suddenly. A good girl? A girl? No. She would fight tooth and nail. Seeing his children? Yes, no doubt. Probably, for a couple of weeks, living with him – and him alone – why not. But forever and with a _good girl_? No. Over her dead body.

"You're insane," she spat angrily. "You will not get them. Not like this."

"I'm not insane," he argued, pink ears but unfortunately, his temper had not risen yet. He was annoyingly calm. Quite surprisingly. "And why shouldn't I? My children are wizards. They should grow up knowing there is such a thing as magic."

"They know that," she argued. "And have you seen some accidental magic? Because Hugo hasn't done anything yet. He hasn't summoned anything, he hasn't apparated anywhere and her hasn't done anything even remotely magical."

"He hasn't?" Ronald paled. "But..."

"But I thought you were quite open towards the idea of Muggles and Squibs. I remember you – you! - telling me when I was pregnant with Rose that you didn't care whether it was a boy or a girl or a Squib."

"Yes, but..."

She nodded. "Fine, Ronald. So you want to bring your children up the Wizarding way, eh? What if one of them is not a wizard?"

"He could still..."

"Do Mister Filch's job?" she sneered. "No."

"He hasn't done anything yet?"

"You would know that if you had spent more time with him."

"You're being unfair," he cried and stood up hastily.

"Yes, yes, I am. As you were all those weekends when you worked double shifts and I was left alone with two babies. Fine. Try and get those children but only over my dead body, Ron."

xx

The Gryffindor wanted to have him over for dinner. And his daughter was making friends with a drunk over breakfast. And he was almost forcing her to live in the coal shed. Just because he had a daughter.

It was Ophelia's fault, really.

Ophelia had made him do all those things. Dangerous, persuasive little Ophelia. Take in a drunk. Let his daughter play with Gryffindors. Making a potion to stop addiction.

And still – he did not mind. His Ophelia had learned well. He had barely recognised the fact that he had been manipulated. But she had, knowingly, or unknowingly.

Yes – the pet had been a good idea. And that special pet was a good idea as well. Now, only that idiot from the Magical Menagerie, Frida Fera, had to deliver it. He had been given a special price – because, apparently, the magical photograph had confirmed that fact, the stupid animal had shifty eyes. Not that he minded. It would be perfect for his Ophelia – and for him.

And he had not had to leave the house to get it. That had been the best part because leaving Ophelia alone? No. Definitely not. He could not possibly do that. Leave his little girl alone – or even with anyone? No. Never. Not until she had to leave for school.

His parents had often left him alone. And he didn't want to do that. He didn't want her to sit alone at home, wondering if there would be something for dinner or not – if his mother brought home some money, or if his father had spent all of it in the pub down the road.

No – he would not allow that. She would not be alone at all.

And still – he dragged his eyes away from the odd letter Hermione Granger had sent and looked at his little witch and the witch without a wand, a tea towel in her hands still, listening intently.

Maybe – maybe he could get her this way. Not that he cared but she was a brilliant test person after all. And she seemed to like Ophelia.

"Would you consider watching my daughter once in a while?" he asked quietly and, as expected, she looked puzzled. Almost – scared.

"Will you?" Ophelia almost bounced on her seat. "Just think, Squiffy, we could play and we could read and you could tell me stories!"

He saw her flinch when his daughter called her by that horrible nickname. And at the moment, she wasn't squiffy. She wasn't in the least inebriated. Sober. Just sober and the trembling was a bit worse but she kept herself together. She held on tightly to the tea towel – but the flinching had been visible and his daughter would not ruin his plan. No, she was the means – and the tool. As much as he hated to do it.

"Ophelia, please do not call Missus Kelly by that infernal nickname," he admonished – but kept his voice as gentle as he could.

The little witch frowned. "But..."

"Ophelia, please call Missus Kelly by her name."

"But I thought Squ..."

"You can call me Mary if you like," Mary Kelly lay a kind but trembling hand on her shoulder and seemed to squeeze.

"Will you sometimes play with me, Mary?" Ophelia asked, obediently.

She looked at him – searched him with her eyes and Severus did indeed pull up his Occlumency shields. He did not want her to see what his reasons were for wanting her away from the alcohol – especially since he did not want her to see what he did not want to realise himself. That he did it not only because he needed a test person but because she was...

No. Better focus on his daughter and her smiling, winning face. Her dangerous, cunning face. The one nobody could resist.

And it seemed that Mary Kelly was looking at her as well – especially since the little witch snuggled up to her a little and Severus felt something odd inside himself. A weird feeling in his chest – in his stomach and he felt his hands clutching to fists. He could not be possibly – jealous – of Ophelia liking another adult? But his little witch with an arm around her little shoulder that was not his? Had seemed unlikely only a few weeks ago when she had been scared even of him.

And she seemed to notice that he did not like seeing her like this – and smiled brightly. Smiled at him and it relaxed his hands at least and his face, that must have been like thunder, fell into the usual mask. Still, she smiled up at Mary Kelly, then left her side and skipped over to him and climbed on his lap.

Nobody in the whole wide world – not even Lily Evans, not even Albus Dumbledore – had ever known him as well as his almost five-year old daughter. Three days until she had her birthday.

And she would love her present.

"Do you want me to watch you?" Mary Kelly asked and Ophelia, her head settled against his chest nodded viciously.

"Yes, please. Can you be my grandma then?" she blurted and all the feelings that might have been jealousy evaporated into thin air. Too Gryffindor. Too direct. He had more to teach her. A lot more.

"Your grandma?" the woman paled and the tea towel in her hand, wrung together, was clutched against her mouth.

"Missus Kelly, I have to apo..."

She shook her head and stared, fearfully and got up too quickly – the chair clattering to the floor. "I...," she merely said and ran from the living room into the corridor – and after that, he only heard the front door bang shut. And his daughter looked scared up at him, not knowing what she had done wrong.

He groaned – knowing he would have to explain. And brew another batch of Sober Up Potion.

xx

Hermione paced in the kitchen. She was glad that her mother had bought that bloody DVD with the odd film – one she remembered from when she was young though – and had put the children in front of it as soon as they had all returned home. All four at once, almost. Up until then, she had paced already. Had waited for an owl from Snape – had wanted to tell someone what an idiot her ex-husband was but she could not really think of anyone to tell this to. Harry and Ginny were more than prejudiced (and both of them had not been in the Muggle World for quite some time – both had embraced their Wizarding status – and she understood, sort of. It wasn't as if Harry had been treated nicely by Muggles), and she did not really have much contact to anyone else that she trusted enough to tell this to.

Except her parents at the moment. Marriage had made her lose friends. Before she had been married to Ron, she had occasionally met Luna, had occasionally met others from school – but with marriage and children, her social contacts had been reduced to the Weasleys and all their relatives and spouses and children and her parents.

"Will you sit down?" her mother groaned. "It's making me nervous."

"Hermione, will you tell us what happened?" her father asked gently.

"Ron. Ronald Weasley happened," she spat. "He wants the children. Wants Rose and Hugo to live with him and his new girlfriend."

"He can't get them," her mother said, shocked.

"I bet he'll tell his mother and Molly will interfere and you know what she's like," Hermione huffed. "I mean who does he think he is? Superdad? Snape was a more loving father than Ron. Snape spends more time with his daughter and we always thought he was a heartless, cold git."

"He didn't seem that way," Jonathan Granger interrupted.

"I know. That's what's so horrible," she spat. "I thought Ron would be a good father. I always thought that he would enjoy having children. That he would be good with them. And he isn't. He spent more time of those days off work on the quidditch pitch with Harry than with us. Snape wouldn't even leave his daughter here alone."

"Why does he want the children then?" he asked, Judith obviously too shocked to say anything.

Hermione threw her hands in the air. "I don't know. He said something about raising them in the Wizarding World and basically _exposing_ them to magic."

"What?" her mother shouted. "The arrogant twit. You know," she pointed her finger at Hermione, "you can say what you like but all those purebloods are the same. No matter what everyone thinks about the Weasleys. I know that they're considered Muggle friendly but Ronald was always afraid of us and he never let you come over Christmas. He always looked down on us. Always thought we were silly and amusing but not to be taken seriously. I will not have my grandchildren grow up that way," she got up as well and paced together with Hermione.

xx

Jonathan Granger grinned amusedly. Yes, yes, it was a serious topic but Ronald Weasley was that way. He had an idea and had to act on it. If that idea was met with problems, or if it didn't immediately work, he soon lost interest. He had been that way as long as he had known him. And probably as long as he had heard stories about him from Hermione.

He understood his women's fears. The children were their one and only – well, especially Hermione's one and only. The only thing she had left apart from them and her work. But Ronald would never be able to handle two children at once on his own.

"And his new girlfriend, Henrietta without a surname, is supposed to be their new Mummy," Hermione spat and John frowned. His wife, his darling Jude, was rigid and stood stock still.

No, he would not leave his grandchildren alone with some strange woman. His family, all of them, would fight against this. If Ronald Weasley was so stupid to really pursue this. Or worse – dragged Molly Weasley in there.

That woman could be like a dog with a bone. Only worse.

"Calm down," he said and pointed at two chairs. "Pacing and standing will not help. We'll devise a plan and he will not be allowed to have my grandchildren living with a strange woman I have never met."

xx

Ophelia was shocked. She thought Squiffy – no, Missus Kelly – had been nice and would watch her in case her Daddy had to go somewhere. Not that he ever went anywhere without her but still. It would have been nice to have a grandmother who made biscuits and hot chocolate and baked and cooked with her. That breakfast had been delicious and while she loved porridge, this was something else. It was hot and greasy and tasty and wonderful.

Daddy sat completely still. He had his arms around her to keep her on his lap but he didn't even move his hands. He just sat and she had to check if he still breathed.

"Why did she run away, Daddy?" she asked, turning a little on his lap and looking up at him.

He sighed and suddenly, his hands were on her back and he moved his fingers only a little. The way she liked it. The way he always did when she needed reassurance, when she needed to know he was there and thought about what she had said.

"Is it my fault?" she asked again, fearfully, as she waited for his answer.

"I do not know, Ophelia," he replied slowly. "But I think you reminded her of her past."

"Of her dead family?" she asked again, remembering, "Why?"

He pulled her to him. "She was reminded of what she does not have."

Ophelia frowned. "I don't understand."

"You're too little to understand," he replied and pressed a kiss on her hair.

"I hate it when someone says that," she huffed. "You don't do it."

"No, I usually don't do it," he replied and looked in her eyes again. "She never had a grandchild and maybe she wanted one."

"Like I want a grandma?" she asked innocently. "But if she wants a sort of grandchild and I want a sort of grandma, why did she leave then? She could be my grandma and I could be her grandchild."

He sighed but said nothing and Ophelia was very confused. Sometimes grown-ups were very weird.

"Will she come back?" she asked after a moment.

"I suppose she will," he answered and set her on her feet. "And I believe we should have the potion ready for when she does," he added in a weird voice. Like he was sure of what he was doing.

"The Sober Up?"

"That and the other one," he muttered and since he walked towards the door, she followed him quickly. She would not let him brew alone. She wanted to help. And wanted to find out if Squi...Mary was angry with her. Daddy would know. If she only dug a little deeper.

xx

She paced her room – the children in bed, the parents in bed and she was still up. It disturbed her greatly. She could not possibly live without her children and she had been more than glad when her parents had stood by her so closely, had supported her when she needed it the most.

The case was simple. Since the Wizarding World seemed to be so old fashioned, it should be no problem to claim that they were better off living with their mother. Which – in this case – it was. Better than with a random stranger.

But really – it was strange and she would have to do a little reasearch on the fact, but it seemed that even the Muggleborns, at least those she knew, had completely left the World of their parents and all had jobs within the Wizarding one. Why was that?

She loved magic, she really did, but there were advantages of being a Muggle. Or living there.

She stopped pacing suddenly. There was one witch she knew that had chosen the Muggle World. And one Wizard she knew who showed his daughter Muggle culture. And both were relatives. Mother and son.

She would throw caution in the wind. If Ron was serious – and she did not doubt that he was (he could be like a dog with a bone when it came to things he cared about – stubborn as he was) – she needed all the help she could get.

And he had never denied helping someone. Whether he liked it or not.

She would throw caution in the wind. Simple. Would go and see him. Would ask. Would tell him. Whether he wanted to hear it or not. He knew about both Worlds. He was a halfblood and his daughter was a halfblood and he, though living in Knockturn Alley – ventured out into the Muggle Words regularly.

She would ask him. Go and see him and ask.

_**xx **_

_**Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!**_


	30. Chapter 30

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

On the dot. She leaned heavily, her eyes closed against his front door and he could smell her bad breath from inside. And Ophelia was with him to see her this way. And he wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

He knew addiction. He knew what it did to people, what it did to family. He had seen it first hand. And it wasn't – nice. Neither for the addict, nor for the people around him or her. And as a matter of fact, his daughter was around it now. And he disliked that. Strongly. Ophelia should be protected. Should not know such things. Should not even know that such things existed. Yet, living in Knockturn Alley, and growing up there in the future, she would be confronted with the realities of life quickly. And he would not leave the Alley – this was where he knew he could make a living.

And he could still try and shelter his daughter. In any way he could.

Since he still tried – he had taken her hand just as soon as he had spotted Squiffy Mary Kelly but she had been quicker and before he could hold her back, she had pulled free and opened the door for the drunk witch.

"Mary!" she said angrily – and he had never seen his little witch quite so aggravated.

"If that isn't the little sweetheart Ophelia," the woman slurred. "D'you think I could get some potion? Missed work already once."

His little witch stood, her fists clenched and pressed in her sides and her glare, he saw from her side, was fierce. "You're not allowed to drink any more," she said – her anger still radiating off. It had, apparently, helped, that she realised that this woman was only worse when she had drunk and that her running away had not been solely Ophelia's fault. Had taken him long enough to comfort his sad girl and explain that it had not been her but circumstances. And apparently, Ophelia was convinced that the Silvergin made things only worse for her. She had obviously grasped that during their brewing (when he had explained that addiction of any kind was bad and that it only made problems bigger – and that that was why Mary Kelly had reacted the way she had when she had been sober.

Ophelia had understood – and seemed to be on a mission now. And even though he had never experienced his girl on a mission – he could just about imagine what that would look like and he kept quiet and watched.

xx

Daddy had said that alcohol was bad. And she saw it now. Mary had been nice and kind the day before. She had cuddled her and had made breakfast and had been clean. Now she looked as if she had slept in the dustbin and smelled the same way. And this was not right.

She could be sad – and she didn't have to be her grandma if she didn't want to be – but she would not drink any more. And if Ophelia had to follow her around.

No – Mary would not drink any more. It was just wrong. She liked Sober Mary Kelly much better. A word she had learned from Daddy. Sober. Sounded much better than Squiffy anyway.

"Sweetheart, I have to go to work," she said drunkenly and stumbled forward a bit but Ophelia shook her head.

"No," she said and suddenly felt her Daddy next to her, his hand on her neck underneath her hair, his fingers moving ever so gently and she knew he was on her side. They had to help Mary. Just had to. Mary Kelly was so nice and she would be even nicer when she wasn't drinking. She had seen it! She had seen how she could be and while her Daddy's hugs were the best hugs in the world, Mary's came in definitely second. It was softer than Daddy – somehow. But she didn't want to hug that woman. That woman was dirty and stinking!

"No alcohol any more," Ophelia said sternly. "And Daddy and I did the coal flat yesterday. It's pretty and large and has a bathroom and a little kitchen and curtains and a large bed and you have to live there. Did you sleep in the dustbin?"

The fingers on her neck twitched and she knew her Daddy was silently laughing. But it was true – and she stared up at him for a moment to let him know that he should not be laughing. That it was true.

"Missus Kelly," she suddenly heard him next to her and it was the kind voice. Not quite the Sirfather-voice but kinder than usual. She loved how different his voice could sound. "I cannot with clean conscience give you any more Sober Up Potion,"he continued and Ophelia looked up at him, surprised. They had brewed a few vials before Daddy had waved his wand over the coal flat and had made it into a nice, clean flat for Mary and he had said yesterday that she would get it.

Then he had tried something else and that had failed and Daddy had only not been angry any more, after she had hugged him long and hard and had snuggled up on his lap and had asked him to sleep in his bed again. Then he had not been angry any more.

She would have to remember that.

But, but, but, Mary was getting angry now and her eyes were twinkling madly. "Fine," she said and swayed as she wanted to turn around.

"Don't be daft, woman," Daddy said and took his hand from her neck, letting his fingers glide through her hair before he stepped forward and grabbed Mary's arm just as she seemed about to fall on the floor.

xx

She knew she had to be careful. The books she had consulted said absolutely nothing about custody, about divorces, about who got children in case there were some in a case like theirs. She was afraid – even so many years after the war – but with prejudices still running high, and with the things that had already been written in the paper, she would not take any risks. No, she was currently under a Disillusionment Charm, sneaking through Knockturn Alley. It was still early and hopefully, there weren't too many customers already there.

She would just ask him for help. Would ask if he knew about laws. If he knew anything. Anything that would help her in case worse came to worse. Easy. Simple.

The door to the apothecary was wide open and there was nobody around outside and she cancelled the charm just before she slipped in and she couldn't believe her eyes.

Again.

It was one thing to see him cuddling his daughter.

It was quite another to see him holding a woman. She only saw the back of both him and the distinctly female back with the long hair in a plait, the long, flowing skirt with dirty specks on it – dirty specks?

He did not hug her – but held her, his arm around her back, as if he was trying to keep her upright and she noticed, now, that Ophelia was looking at her and them, her eyes flicking back and forth. Apparently, the girl did not know what to say, what to do and she tried hard to catch her father's attention without having to clearly state that Hermione was there.

"Good morning," she said suddenly to spare the little one to say something.

Snape spun around and the woman in his arm was dragged along with him. She was completely out of it, apparently.

"Oh my God," Hermione spluttered, "what's wrong with her?"

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he replied coldly, "in case you came to ask, yes, I did get your owl."

"What's wrong with her?" she nodded towards the woman.

"She's drunk," Ophelia piped up.

"What?" Hermione cried. "You have to give her Sober Up."

"But she has to...," Ophelia began but was cut off by her father – he glared at her and said her name sharply. The girl was quiet immediately.

"Who is she?" Hermione asked and moved towards them. "And why don't you give her Sober Up?"

"Miss Granger, this is truly none of your business."

"She's your mother," she suspected and briskly, she was on the other side of the woman, taking her other arm and helping her stand.

"She's not Daddy's mother," Ophelia sounded scandalised. "She's Mary."

"Ophelia!" he said again, louder this time.

"Do you want to put her to bed somewhere?" Hermione asked – knowing that she had to keep calm and – most importantly – her trap shut. She needed to let him talk. It was who wanted something from him, not the other way round. It was her who had questions and wanted to ask him for help. And as such, she had to behave accordingly. And her outburst, her questions – those had probably been too much already. Well, she would try and behave better now.

And he looked at her – seemed to try to make up his mind whether to say anything, yes, or no, or bugger off. But he said nothing and instead merely raised his eyebrows.

"We have to bring her to the coal flat," Ophelia said suddenly and it was her who raised her eyebrows.

He helped someone? Let someone live in something called the coal flat? Someone called Mary? Who was obviously so drunk that she couldn't stand on her own feet any more? Loving his daughter was one thing – but helping this woman, whoever she was? She didn't know him. Not at all.

xx

He would strangle his girl. One of these days, he would most certainly strangle her. Telling that Granger woman everything? Making Granger help him put Mary Kelly into bed, sleeping it off instead of chucking a potion. Damn Ophelia.

And damn Granger. She was still there and stared expectantly at him, even though they had returned to the apothecary and he had – missed by both Ophelia and Granger – made sure there were wards on the former coal shed that would alert him should she wake up. If she waited for him to explain what was happening, she was very much mistaken. What he did and why he did it was solely his own business. Was none of hers. And he would certainly not tell her anything.

"Erm, Mister Snape, eh, I have, erm, I came here for a reason," she stuttered suddenly and blushed ever so slightly when she looked at him. He tried hard to hide his smirk. Granted – something like this, the usually so together Granger blushing and stuttering was probably worth letting her in on the secret that he gave Mary Kelly a home. Not that he had any choice about this. It had just happened – and he would have to have a few well-chosen words with his girl. Later.

"Yes?" he drawled.

"I...you know that I got a divorce," she began slowly, "and my ex-hus..."

"Is Hugo alright?" Ophelia asked suddenly from the chair she had climbed up and he turned to look at his daughter. Her speaking up – made it clear that this entire thing was very absurd. Granger coming to his apothecary at seven thirty in the morning? Dragging Mary Kelly to the former coal shed with him? And now obviously wanting to talk to him?

"Absurd," he muttered.

Granger nodded. "Yes. Yes, it is, and trust me, if I had known another solution, I wouldn't be here now but I checked every book and every article I knew about, well, almost, and you know the Wizarding World and I – I don't know who else to ask."

"Is there a point?" he asked snarkily.

"It was a mistake coming here," she huffed. "But I still have to ask."

"Ask what, Miss Granger?" he asked and looked sternly at his daughter. "Ophelia, do you remember the little pot full of violet-roots in the back?"

The little one nodded and smiled. "Shall I get it, Daddy?"

"Yes, please," he answered and waited until she had disappeared. He had no intention of helping Granger. Absolutely none but he could always use a bit of gossip. It made all of those weapons he had against the decent Wizarding World complete. And dirt on Granger and Weasley – the post-bellum dream-couple – that was something he wanted to hear. "And?"

"My ex-husband wants the children," she choked out and she was probably full with emotions. He could see it. And he disliked emotional women. They were annoying and a nuisance. Hence the birthday-present for his daughter. All women should have...oh well.

"And I can't let him have those. He still believes that the Wizarding World is better than the Muggle one and I saw you showing your daughter around. The Globe Theatre. I don't think Ronald even knows there is such a thing. But you show your daughter all those sights and, I don't know, I mean, back to the topic, he wants to make sure that they are raised amongst wizards but he's absolutely unsuitable for raising my children and he has this new girlfriend that he calls a good girl – a good girl! - and I don't even know her. By all I know, she could be 15. Or maybe 55. I don't know. I've never met this woman and he wants her to raise my children. And I don't think there is anything wrong with living as Muggles. As far as I know my Hugo could be a Squib. I don't care but he wants them around magic and I wondered really, if you know anything about laws or precedents in such cases," she took a deep breath – had not taken one during her entire speech and her cheeks were even pinker than before.

Really – Granger had just blurted her entire private life to him. Everything that she feared. And despite everything – and especially despite the fact that he would never admit this to anyone – he could sympathise. He would be afraid – very afraid – if someone threatened to take his Ophelia away. He wouldn't probably go so far as to ask her for help in this case – but he would certainly use any other means he knew to fight to keep her. And he had only had his girl a few months. She had her children ever since they were born.

No – honestly – he would probably act the same way. If he knew it helped.

But – no – he had never even thought about those happenings. He had never even imagined something like this to happen in their World. There – the children stayed with their mother. For as long as there was a non-abusive, non-dangerous mother.

"I can't lose them," she said suddenly and looked at him – helplessly – and her eyes full of love for her children, full of fear, full of trepidation and full of – hope.

He nodded sharply. "I do not known about any such laws, Miss Granger, but that does not mean there are none."

"Those are still just so – so – full of prejudice still and I don't know, I mean, he's a pureblood, I'm a Muggleborn. I don't know if there are courts and – I can't believe I know so little about this," she bit her lip.

"What makes you think I know more?" he snarled, "and what brings you here to ask me?"

She looked at him for a moment – and a moment longer. She held his gaze for quite a while before she answered. "You're the only one I trust not to be prejudiced against me as a Muggleborn. In this matter, I mean. Who knows enough."

He sneered. "Miss Granger, are you aware of where you are and who you are talking to?"

She nodded. "Yes. Very much so. But you never treated us any worse because of our parents. Because we were in Gryffindor, yes – but not because of our status. And you take your daughter to Muggle sights."

Her eyes shone. She wanted him to help. She wanted him to help her keep her children should that idiot Weasley try to get her children.

He wanted to shake his head. He wanted to tell her to get out but it had shaken him to the core – what she had said.

You're the only one I trust not to be prejudiced against me as a Muggleborn.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_

_**If you write a review that's longer than three lines (on my screen) you will get a dedication! **_


	31. Chapter 31

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

_**Dedicated to: **_

_**Aletto **_

_**Anniely **_

_**catastrophecolly **_

_**Ceralyn **_

_**D. B. Levredge**_

_**Estora **_

_**Isalie964 **_

_**junewilliams7 **_

_**Neeps513**_

_**notjustme22 **_

_**Stripe Flavored Toothpaste **_

_**trizfores **_

_**xx**_

Their gazes had locked some moments ago. She wasn't sure why exactly she suddenly found the dark eyes intensely interesting but she understood that she had stirred something in him that she hadn't seen yet. He was afraid that someone could take his daughter away from him as well. She didn't know whether her stay with him was threatened but he was certainly thinking. Thinking deeply. And he looked at her while he thought.

And she couldn't tear her eyes away as well. Maybe she had struck a cord with what she had said as well. But yes, it was true. She knew that he had, during her years at school, never treated Muggleborns unfairly just because they were Muggleborns. Treated them unfairly because they did not grasp the concept of potions, treated them unfairly because they were there – but not because of their blood. Apart from the Slytherins, no matter whether his students had been pureblood, halfblood or Muggleborn, they were treated the same – unfairly. And the thing with Slytherin (yes, and there had been a few in that house who's blood wasn't entirely pure – according to lists she had read after she had finished school) – well, he had to do that, hadn't he? Or wanted to, no matter which.

"Do you think you could help me?" she asked quietly – her mouth speaking off its own accord. More or less.

He looked up at the ceiling briefly and she felt – she didn't know what she felt – without the dark eyes boring into hers. "I do not believe that I can help you, Miss Granger," he replied.

Her face fell. He was saying no. He was sending her away. He would be laughing at her in a second.

"Since there is nothing I know about it at all," he continued. "Wizarding Laws change, or used to change, rapidly. As such, a book that was printed a year ago might be utterly out of date."

"I know that," she replied impatiently. "I work in Magical Law Enforcement."

He arched his eyebrows sardonically. "And you do not know about laws?"

"No, I know about laws, and I know that in the last 35 years there was no law passed concerning children and where they should live in case of a divorce. But – during the two wars, a lot of the older books disappeared and hence, I do now know if there is a law older than 35 years that most people have forgotten about because in this bloody world, apparently, every couple is so happy," she huffed. "Or the spouse dies under mysterious circumstances," she added, muttering.

He smirked. "Indeed. And if you're so well informed, why come here and disturb me and my daughter and ask _me_ for help?"

She sighed. "Because...I don't know. Because I thought you would. Because I don't want to lose my children. And because you're a good father to Ophelia."

He looked at her again, then turned his head around – and switched his gaze to what was probably the storeroom – where his daughter was.

"Miss Granger," he began, turning around again, "a law that has not been used in over 35 years will not be observed now."

"Yes?" she asked.

"And since you're in Law Enforcement," he said mockingly, "I'm sure you're well acquainted with the process of law-making in our society."

"You mean...I should...," she opened her eyes wide. "Of course. If there is no such law – I should just..."

He raised his eyebrows for a moment and then turned again as his daughter bounced into the shop again, an earthenware pot in both her hands. "Here, Daddy," she smiled. "Are we making Didn't Listen Salve again?"

Hermione frowned. Didn't Listen Salve? She had never heard of it. Had he developed something new? She certainly wouldn't put it past him. What had he sent her to get? Violet roots. She riled through her mental notes – violet roots. Were used with all kinds of Healing Potions, Salves. But that did not help with something called Didn't Listen Salve. But maybe – her children did that – called things by names they had invented.

He had noticed her frowning and thinking and smirked as he pulled a stool out from underneath the counter and his girl climbed on it, smiling at Hermione and peeking into an apparently empty cauldron.

"What is Didn't Listen Salve?" Hermione asked when all he did was smirk and all Ophelia did was waiting for her Daddy to say something.

"Daddy put it on my fingers when I touched the stove," she explained.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes, it was hot and it hurt and Daddy told me not to touch it and I touched it nevertheless and it hurt and when he put it on, he said that that's what happens, when you Didn't Listen. And that's why it's called Didn't Listen Salve."

"Burning Salve," he muttered and lay his hand on Ophelia's shoulder. "And what did I tell you about talking to strangers?"

"But she's Hugo's Mummy," she cried indignantly, "and we were in her home. She's no stranger."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Would you like to come and play with Hugo again?" Hermione asked with a smirk of her own.

xx

She had apparently recovered quickly. Influencing his daughter? Thinking she could waltz in his apothecary, asking him for his opinion, for his help, interpreting what he had not said and had not meant at all. That was essential Granger. But she was scared of losing her children and rightly so. No, there were no laws but the way this society still worked, especially with Lucius Malfoy on the loose again – even without money – she as a Muggleborn mother – with halfblood children and the pureblood father with maybe a pureblood girlfriend – would have no chance against her ex-husband. She had the right idea, to be honest, to try and make new laws, get them to pass.

But the insufferable woman. Trying to influence Ophelia? No way. His daughter got many things. Her present would be delivered – but he would make the decisions who to see and who not to see.

"Or don't you want to let your child play with a potential Squib?" Granger asked defiantly.

"What's a Squib?" Ophelia asked before he could react.

A potential Squib? The child of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley a potential Squib? The outrage that would ripple through the Wizarding World – unimaginable. No – he would not mind Ophelia playing with a Squib. Or with a Muggle – though nobody would believe that, probably. But he did not want to be pressured into anything. And she was trying to do that. Would be trying to pin it on Bloodism.

"A Squib," he explained instead, "is a child born to magical parents who is not able to do magic."

She glared challengingly. "I am not sure, Miss Granger, whether my daughter is ready to go back," he said and Ophelia looked up – and he was right. She probably did want to play with Hugo, but another experience like the one she just had at the Granger's house was something she certainly did not want. Hugo was not interested in Potions – not the way his sister was – and rather clung to Ophelia instead of him.

Granger nodded slowly. "I und..."

"But can Hugo come to my birthday?" Ophelia blurted and he, once more, was ready to clip her ears. Or strangle her.

"It's your birthday soon?" Granger asked and Ophelia nodded happily.

"The day after tomorrow," she smiled.

"I'm afraid, we have other plans for the day," he said coldly. And he had.

"Daddy!" his girl cried and turned around to poke him in the stomach. "What plans?" she asked suddenly, her brows beetled.

He smirked and lifted her under her arms, turning her around to look at the cauldron again. "That, Ophelia, is a surprise."

"Really?" she asked, looking over her shoulder and, for a moment leaning against him. "Can Hugo come?"

"No, Ophelia," he said sternly.

"You know," Hermione Granger said suddenly then, her eyes fixed on him, "you're not the man I thought I knew."

And with that, she pointed her wand at her head and disillusioned herself. "Good bye, Mister Snape, Ophelia," she said gently before she disappeared from view and the door to the apothecary opened and closed and his daughter leaned against him closer.

"Where are we going on my birthday, Daddy?" she asked softly and her head was pressed against his shoulder. That stool had been a good idea. She was much more level with him.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked, having bent down, whispering in her ear.

She nodded viciously. "You know I can."

"I can keep a secret, too," he replied with a smirk. "And where we're going is a secret."

"Daddy!" she stomped her foot on the stool. "Tell me, please!"

"No," he whispered silkily and kissed her temple. "You just have to wait two more days."

xx

She woke in a strange room and her head was pounding evilly. Bits and pieces of the day and night before came back, flashing through her head, worsening the headache.

Snape's lovely little girl Ophelia. The sweetheart who wanted her to be her grandmother – she pushed that far, far back.

Running out from Snape's house and into the next pub. Wanting to just drink one Silvergin and then go back to Snape and telling him that she could not possibly take the potion and be a test-animal because she could not bear to see her children and dear Joe when she was dreaming soberly. When she heard their voices and smelled their smell everywhere she went. Didn't he know that the Silvergin dulled that and that she only, in very rare moments, saw them even clearer?

No – better to drown it than to wallow in self-pity. She hated self-pity. And she hated pity from others. They had always looked at her so feeling-sorry-for-her when she had lost – them. She could not stand those looks. Some still did it.

And it was true – Snape never did. And Ophelia seemed to have taken even a liking to her. She lay in the strange place and remembered how good it had felt, how her chest had constricted so deliciously when that little girl had snuggled up to her – then she cracked her eyes open a little – better not think about her little arms around her – and a bit of light was enough to send a horrible white, dreadfully painful flash in her head – from the neck, up the back of her head, right through to the front and it lingered behind her forehead, dulled a bit and throbbed and she felt like her eyebrows would explode any moment. She opened her eyes a little further – and it happened again.

It was worse than the morning before when she had slept it off. The room she had been in then had been darker – this one wasn't. It almost felt as if she was outside, and yet it was warm and there was a smell lingering in the air that she had not smelled in a while. Paint. Magically applied paint. Wood. Furniture. New linen. Lavender on the pillow. A pillow.

There was a pillow underneath her head and it didn't smell like Ophelia's bed. And it didn't feel like Ophelia's bed. It felt oddly different and she tried opening her eyes enough to look around. Sitting up was impossible. Shooting pain in her head. White, dreadful flashes of pain. Brighter than white, actually, and she lifted her very heavy hand in front of her eyes and peeked through them.

This was not Ophelia's room, that much was sure. This room was bigger – and more grown up. More beautiful. White walls. White curtains and the sun was shining through them. Dark floor. Rosewood, probably but her view was hazy and dulled and generally – this felt wrong. Just because it felt so good to be lying there.

"I'm dead now. Finally," she muttered to herself and pushed herself up on her elbows. "No," she told herself quickly. If dead people felt that kind of pain, she never wanted to die.

She groaned and let herself fall down gently again – rubbing her eyes. They were gritty and hurt and she didn't want to see.

More flashes of memory in front of her eyes. Brawling with Thais Stride because that stupid girl just didn't understand that some wizards wanting her were up to now good. Then drinking with Thais Stride. And making sure she slept in the Rusty Nail since Godfrey Wooley had a good heart and a thing for Thais. And hated her. So that was alright then. But Wooley had given her another bit of Silvergin and she had taken it with her. And then there was always the rest of the money she had and Lolita Siochan always had some she sold.

Then there was a blank.

And more light. Light all around her and it was painful and she just wanted to close her eyes and forget all about it. Forget that she knew those people, forget that she now associated with people she would have usually not even looked at. Wanted to forget that Joe and Magda and James were not with her any more.

Wanted to forget that Snape had almost looked concerned and that Ophelia wanted her to stop drinking. Wanted her as a grandmother.

She closed her eyes and held her breath. But that had never worked.

Maybe, maybe Snape's potion would kill her. Maybe she ought to try. And still, the question remained where she was.

She knew she had gone down to Snape's apothecary. For the potion. Because she had to go to Borgin and Burkes. Because she couldn't miss another day. And she had never gone there. She wanted the potion and Ophelia had been against it. And Snape had said that he wouldn't give it to her.

Oh dear sweet Mother of Merlin.

Coal shed.

Her eyes flew open, she sat up and ignored the pain. She was in Snape's coal shed. And after that, after they had taken her in twice – how could she ever live down the humiliation? Twice now.

She tried to swallow, her mouth dry and looked around again. On a little table next to the bed stood a tall glass of water and she picked it up with trembling hands and sniffed it. Just water. She could smell most potions and there was none in it.

She gulped it down – and it tasted like fresh, clean water. Cold but not uncomfortably so and she felt immediately better.

Mary Kelly made a decision in that moment. The decision was quite simple. Her life – such as it was – could not go on.

At least not that way.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_

_**Personal A/N: I'm home this weekend and the next since I've been signed off sick by my doctor. I have something which is called (I translate literally) shoulder-hand-syndrome. Which means basically, that I have inflammations around the tendons in my wrist, my elbow and my shoulder. Both sides. Fun, that, and painful. If that chapter isn't quite as good as you hoped – I took some massive painkillers again and drank a glass of wine. Not a good idea. But I never learn. **_


	32. Chapter 32

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**I know some of you will cheer about what is happening in this chapter – and others will hate me and probably stop reading. I am sorry – I couldn't not do it. I just had to. I hope you forgive me.**_

_**xx**_

Her heels made loud clattering noises on the floor. She needed to know.

No, it wasn't legal. Of course it wasn't – but she didn't care any more.

It was fine for her either way – but she knew her chances would be greater if...yes. They would be bigger. She would win – if – but on the other hand – she daren't even think about it. It wouldn't be the end of the world.

Of course not. Though people would see it that way. Probably. Most likely.

But she knew she could get in there, take a quick look – and be out again. She just needed to see a single word in a single file and she would be done. And she cursed herself for not wearing trainers. But maybe it was better this way. She could just claim she needed to see it because – oh – she could think of something.

Only, it wasn't necessary. The young woman sitting at the door smiled at her, greeted her, and let her in. Which made it a bit, just a bit suspicious. But she was, after all, known still.

She stood in a large room and there was another witch – older this time – sitting in the middle of the room on a desk, spectacles sitting low on her nose and she looked up with a curious expression.

"Hermione Granger," she said in a deep voice. "I wondered when you'd find your way up here."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Who are you?"

"Morla Bux, Miss Granger," she said with a smile. "And you will find what you are looking for."

"Erm, what...I mean, how...what do you mean?"

"It's in the third cabinet on the left. The topmost drawer under G. Or the 17th cabinet on the right, fourth drawer from the bottom under W. It does not matter."

"You know why I'm here?" she asked – confused. "But it's forb..."

"It is a common misconception that this sort of thing is forbidden, Miss Granger. Everyone has a right to know, a right to plan. But most people are afraid to look – hence the rumour that it is forbidden," the older woman said wisely and smiled gently. "Go and look."

Hermione had to admit that she was a little bit freaked out by that woman. How did she know that? But then again, Ollivander had greeted her by her name when she had first stepped into his shop to buy her wand. She nodded quickly. "Thank you, madam," she said in a hushed tone and scurried off. Third cabinet on the left.

No – she had seriously thought it was not allowed to see the files in the Registration office. But here, in that room, she could find out for sure about Hugo. But she understood why that myth had come to pass that it was forbidden. And she understood it better every second that she stepped closer to the third cabinet on the left. Her hands were shaking slightly and she even wondered briefly whether she should leave again. Leave and find out for herself if her son was a wizard or not.

For Hugo, it would probably be better if he wasn't. He wasn't in the slightest interested in anything magical – he loved his train set, he loved the dentistry and had said, more than once, that he wanted to be a dentist when he grew up.

But for Ron – it would probably be a catastrophe. And she couldn't even imagine the reaction of Molly Weasley – she never even talked about her Squib cousin. Much less talked to her. And that would give her an advantage if Ronald really pressed and wanted the children.

It had been almost two days, but Severus Snape had been right. Making laws wasn't that difficult. Yes, it would certainly look suspicious if she tried to get one to pass now – in her situation. But she had to try. And if it didn't work – she would simply pay a visit to Professor McGonagall. And that woman could make it happen. No matter what. But she wasn't ready to that. Especially since she hadn't talked to her for a while. About two years or so. But if worse came to worse, she would.

If she could manage to get a law to pass – such a law – it would be a huge step. All the purebloodedness wouldn't be so important any more. And she would make sure that, if that one came through, all the rest of the still active pro-pureblood-laws were abolished.

She stood in front of the cabinet and had the drawer pulled out. She chewed on her lip, pushed her hair back behind her ear and, breathing deeply, pulled the file out. Hers.

And there it was. Showing both her children. She was a Muggleborn. Hence, her children were marked in there as either witch, wizard, or Squib (though, it didn't really make sense to mark her children as Squibs. Weren't they rather Muggles? Well – probably they would be had she married a Muggleborn – not time to ponder that question).

Rose Augusta Weasley. _Witch_.

Hugo Douglas Weasley. _Squib_.

xx

He smirked. It was going well. Yes, it had been difficult to think of something he could do with Ophelia that he could not possibly take the little Weasley with him – but he had to say something, hadn't he? He did not want to share Ophelia on her first birthday with him. She was his and he wanted to celebrate her fifth birthday with her, and her alone.

Well, that alone, no – that had not worked. Busy in the kitchen was Mary Kelly.

That woman had surprised him. With dark shadows underneath her eyes, she had walked into the storeroom from the back – and from there into the apothecary. She had, even to his untrained eye, looked like death warmed up. But, she had been cleaner and had brushed her teeth and, though her eyes were bloodshot, and she seemed to have difficulty speaking, she had smiled at Ophelia, had glared at him, and had told him that she would take the potion.

Just that. Ophelia had grinned broadly. He had probably looked a bit stunned – and she had repeated it, had said to tell her when it was ready and had left, through the back, again. Ophelia, after getting his permission, had followed her – and had returned a few minutes later, telling him that she had fallen asleep again.

He had his work cut out for him. He thought. But he also thought that she would stay in the coal flat as his girl had dubbed it. She hadn't. She had returned in the late afternoon when he had brewed and Ophelia had watched, and had told him that she would make dinner.

She had. And breakfast the next day. And she had been sober but trembling. And lunch the next day, annoyed and mean to him and Ophelia. And dinner again.

And the potion still did not work.

And here she was now. On Ophelia's birthday, taking a freshly baked cake from the oven. Huffing and muttering to herself. But still sober. Only, he was afraid that she would not make it much longer. And today, no, today, the apothecary was closed.

He would take Ophelia somewhere he had never been, somewhere she had never been. He had done research, the owl post worked nicely, even with brochures and information material and he had read up on it. Had picked the place, had prepared everything.

The Magical Menagerie had delivered the present in time and he had not been able to hide the smirk upon seeing it. This was much better than a snake. Much better than a bloody kneazle (and yes, he was allergic to cats and kneazles), much better than a dog.

It was the perfect gift for his girl. And for him. He remembered teenage girls. They were moody and unpredictable and as much as he loved his daughter, he knew she would be the same way. This – this animal would make it simpler. Just because it was magical. Just because it showed him, and he smirked again, the mood, at least the rough direction of the mood, of the owner. And since Ophelia would be the owner, he would know by only looking at the animal. And the shifty eyes, which had made the animal a little cheaper than usual (nobody could otherwise afford it. It was rare after all. And helpful. And the best present) were merely funny. And, he had to admit, endearing.

Ophelia would be thrilled. He hoped. And he hoped she would be thrilled about the surprise. Where he was taking her. He couldn't be sure about that – but he knew that he would probably be able to convince her not to be afraid. She could cling to him all she wanted. That much – he knew. And he would not pull away, he would not pull a face, he would not push her off. He couldn't. Even if it was in public. He would show his love for his daughter. No matter how many people looked, no matter what they thought. If they had such a Slytherin girl, they would be proud as well. They would love her as well. Not that those people would understand Slytherin. No, Muggles usually didn't.

Mary Kelly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a huge carrot cake and sat down with a stifled sigh. He looked at her and arched an eyebrow.

"It's tough," she muttered and handed him a knife. "Maybe you want to put candles on there," she suggested and got up.

"Missus Kelly?" he asked.

"I'll leave you two to it," she said with a crooked smile. "Let me know when you have it. Or anything to help."

His eyes searched hers. They were – full of pain. "You should stay for breakfast," he said quietly. "We'll leave later but I'm sure my daughter would want you to stay."

"I – erm – Mister Snape, I cannot stay," she shook her head. ""Please understand, this is...," she shook her head again, viciously. "I'm only now working through it and...I'm sorry."

He nodded sharply. "I understand," he replied.

"But give Ophelia my love, please. You will not be back for dinner?"

He shook his head. "Probably not. But we will see."

She smiled weakly and with another nod, left the flat. Severus sighed. It was difficult for her to be around his Ophelia. She was a sweet girl – and she probably reminded her of everything she lost. But she was willing to stay, willing to even bake a cake for his girl (something he could have never done), willing to wait for the potion. He wasn't sure of her reason and he wasn't sure he wanted to know but...

"Daddy!" Ophelia shouted from her bedroom and ran, in her nightgown, barefoot, out of it and straight into the living room, and from there into the kitchen where he sat. Before he knew what was happening, he had his armful of little witch. "Hello Daddy," she smirked up at him – very reminiscent of his own smirk.

"Good morning, Ophelia," he replied, hiding his own amusement at his giddy daughter. "Is there a special reason why you're so – exuberant – this morning?" he asked seriously and she nodded with a broad grin.

"And what reason is that?" he asked, keeping his face straight, ignoring the cake with the five burning candles on top.

She finally caught up and turned around on his lap, straddling him, facing him, and clapped her hands on his cheeks before she pushed her head around so the cake was in full view. "That," she said, trying to give her voice a mysterious air.

"A cake. How nice."

"Oh, Daddy," she sighed, her lips pouting. "Don't be stupid."

"Stupid? My own daughter calling me stupid?" he replied scandalised and began to tickle her sides until she squealed and wriggled on his lap and begged him to stop.

"Not stupid. But did you forget my birthday?" she asked innocently after she had caught her breath again.

"Your birthday?" he asked. "Is that why Missus Kelly baked you a cake?" he asked back. "I wondered why she made a carrot cake with candles on top. I don't care much for carrot cake and I've never liked eating candles."

She frowned. "It's my fifth birthday today," she declared solemnly.

"Really?"

She nodded again – and he hadn't known that she could look so serious. "Your fifth birthday?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered. "It's my birthday and I even got a cake."

"Mh, I suppose so," he said pensively. "I think there's something underneath the table. Do you mind looking what it is? You're much smaller and I know you like to sit under the table."

She frowned at him, her eyes full of something he couldn't name but she scrambled off his lap and underneath the table.

"There's a box, Daddy," she answered and the realisation dawned on him that Ophelia was not used to birthday presents either. She had not been used to Christmas presents but then again, he wasn't sure which confession her mother had had. But no birthday present? She muttered something under the table and he bent down.

"Yes?"

"What's in the box?" she asked, peeking up from underneath there.

"I think to answer that question, you should push the box here and look inside," he suggested.

"Won't it be dangerous?" she asked, carefully beginning to push the box.

"No, Ophelia, it is not dangerous," he found himself smiling again. She was – amazing. Surprised him. But if she had those mood swings already – the gift was just right. It would alert him. Immediately. How he had to behave, what to do. It would make things so much easier.

xx

The box was brown and large. Well, not as large that she could fit in, but she could probably stand in it with both her feet. But only just. And it reached only up to her knees. It wasn't a large box at all. But it made strange noises. Shuffling. Maybe. Or chewing and her eyes widened. No, there couldn't be any monster in it. Definitely not. Daddy had said it wasn't dangerous. And Daddy obviously knew what was in there.

But to be honest, she wanted to blow out those candles and eat the cake. Besides, Daddy had promised her to go somewhere and that would be a great, amazing thing to do on her birthday. She knew that grown ups got presents on birthdays – but it wasn't for children. But another day somewhere with Daddy, that was always great. He always picked her up when she was afraid of something or tired and he always bought her a hot chocolate or an ice-cream.

But as she thought about those things, the box were pushed towards her Daddy's feet and she looked up expectantly.

"You should open it, little witch," he said friendly and he even smiled a little. Smiled a little? That was odd. She shrugged to herself and stood up, the floor had been a little cold, and with difficulty, she opened the top of the box and peeked inside.

All she saw was a shell. A green-brown shell. A head. Wrinkled. Four legs – moving around in the box. That had been the noise. Inside the box was a – turtle. Her frown grew and she looked at her Daddy again. Why...

"Why is there a turtle in the box?" she whispered and her Daddy suddenly – quite suddenly – smiled. A full smile. A smile she had never seen on his face before.

"Happy Birthday, my girl," he told her, still smiling and she didn't understand.

"Why is there a turtle?" she asked again.

He let out a sound that she had never heard before – not from Daddy – and it sounded almost like a laugh. Or maybe a chuckle. She could never really tell the difference and since Daddy never made those noises, she wasn't sure.

"This turtle is yours, Ophelia," he explained. "It's your present for your birthday."

She shook her head. "Only grown-ups get presents for their birthdays, Daddy," she explained. Sometimes, Daddy didn't know the simplest rules.

"Not here," he said, suddenly very sternly, "here, children get presents for their birthday as well. Especially children."

Her turtle? Daddy had given her a present? A pet? A turtle pet for her birthday? She got a pet? A turtle? Her eyes grew wide and she still looked at Daddy. "Really?"

"This is your tortoise and you should name her."

"It's a girl? Daddy, look, she's got shifty eyes," she squealed and pointed at it. "Daddy, look."

Daddy went to his knees and sat next to her on the floor, pulled her on his lap again with a muttered, "it's too cold for you down here," cuddled her, held her and, after a moment, helped her pick the turtle up and she held it and looked at it.

It looked absolutely funny with the shifty eyes and quite suddenly, surprisingly, the shell turned rainbow-coloured.

"Daddy, look," she whispered in awe and nodded towards the shell. "It's a rainbow."

He nodded and pressed a kiss on the top of her head and seemed to smile against her hair. Again! Daddy had never smiled so much. "It is a magical turtle," he whispered in her ear.

"Really?"

"Yes and it will always know when you're sad or happy," he explained in her ear and one of his fingers traced the shell of the turtle.

"I'm happy now," she whispered and carefully looked the turtle in the shifty eyes. "Your name is Skippy," she declared loudly before she – with the utmost care – set her on her feet again, turned around and threw herself in her Daddy's arms.

"Thank you, Daddy!"

"You're welcome, my little witch," he held her tightly and rocked them both gently back and forth.

"I love you, Daddy. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"I love you, Ophelia," he replied and kissed her again.

"Does this mean, we will not go somewhere later?" she asked after a moment.

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Because of Skippy. We can't leave her alone."

"Missus Kelly will look after her," he explained and loosened his grip on her. "Or don't you want to go?"

She nodded. "I want to go. But I want Skippy to be fine and not lonely."

"She won't be," he sighed. "Missus Kelly will look after her."

"Where are we going then, Daddy?"

He smirked. "You will see when we get there. But we should have a bit of your cake before and then you have to feed your Skippy."

Ophelia smiled happily. Her life had never been better. Never. And all because her Daddy loved her. How wonderful was that?

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_

_**Ta-da – one of the secrets revealed. A magical mood-sensing tortoise called Skippy. The other secret? Next chapter. But watch out! You've never seen Severus Snape that way! (and yes, I am evil)**_


	33. Chapter 33

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**And a happy belated birthday to Isalie964!**_

_**xx**_

"Daddy, is that alright?" Ophelia lifted a lettuce leaf and showed it to him. She was absolutely in love with her tortoise and after she had dressed, had her cake, had blown out the candle and hugged him again, she had followed it around on the floor the entire time. And the bloody tortoise had sported a rainbow-coloured shell the entire time.

Rainbow-coloured meant ecstatic. More than happy and it showed in every movement she made. No, for rainbow-coloured he did not need the tortoise. She put her head sideways flat on the floor and smiled at Skippy (what a name for such an animal) and pulled faces, then smiled up at him and at the tortoise again and when he had suggested feeding her, she had jumped to her feet and had grinned and hugged his legs and nodded and – he had probably never seen her this happy. And he congratulated himself for thinking up such a great present.

She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, the lettuce leaf still in her hand.

"Yes, that's fine, Ophelia," he said quickly, quite forgetting about her question. "See if she likes it and then we should go."

"Where are we going?" she asked with a sneaky grin and he only rolled his eyes and pointed at the tortoise.

"Feed it and I'll get the things we need," he replied snarkily and watched her for a moment, as she knelt on the floor and dangled the lettuce in front of her new pet. He smirked – and summoned the bag he had packed the night before. He had done his research and had transfigured things accordingly.

He shrunk it and put it in the pockets of his Muggle coat. He had kept it since they ventured there so often. It hung next to her coat. And he had taken both out already and she was ready and he was ready.

He did so many new things with her – and sometimes, he had to shake his head at the fact what she had done with him. Already.

xx

She walked up to her parents' house. Tired – a little. Surprised – no. Shocked – no. Clueless – hell, yes. She had no idea what to talk about and what not to talk about. She would probably not tell Hugo yet – he wouldn't understand. And neither would she tell Rose. But she would say something to her parents.

Her parents knew about the best schools. Her parents would help her find a way to talk to Ronald. He had a right to know, after all. Even though he would probably not believe her. And if he did – he would blame her. And truth be told, she didn't want to tell his parents. Arthur would probably be more understanding – but Molly? She could already imagine her reaction. A Squib was like a blemish on the family.

She sighed before she unlocked the door. Hugo would have difficulties. If she couldn't make sure that he had a place somewhere in the Muggle world – a good school, good education. And that he was happy that he was not a wizard. That was the most important thing. Not to make the mistake of making him feel like a failure.

Probably, she thought as she walked inside, she would just have to build an annexe to her parents' house. Or maybe look for a flat close by. It was the best solution. Her parents – and herself – knew the area. And he would not feel so left out as he would if they lived in Diagon Alley. Or Hogsmeade. No, he was still loved. And she knew that he would have a hard time with the paternal side of his family – but not here. Here, he would be even more accepted, probably. And she would have to do her best to show him.

"Mummy!" her son bounced into the corridor and smiled at her broadly. "It's Ophelia's birthday today."

She smiled back. "I know. I told you, oh son of mine," she replied and knelt on the floor to look into his eyes. He grinned back and hugged her long and hard.

"I missed you, Mummy," he whispered in her ear. "Where were you?"

"Out, and a bit at work," she replied back and held him tightly. No, nothing had changed. He was still her sweet, loving, kind son. Curious, nosy, daring and the one who needed more hugs than his sister. He was still the very same boy.

"Can you help me?" he asked, pulling away slightly.

"Help you?"

He nodded. "I want to write a birthday card for Ophelia," he explained solemnly. "But I can't write yet. Not Ophelia. And I don't know how to write birthday. And happy."

She laughed and tickled him. "Of course I'll help you," she replied after a minute and when he was begging her to stop.

"Mummy, you're home!" Rosie came rushing towards her as well and almost ran her over, pushing into her arms next to Hugo. "Look what I can do," she beamed and raised her hand – and the book she had carried (The Wind in the Willows) hovered above her hand briefly before it clattered on the floor.

"You're such a show-off," Hugo rolled his eyes and it looked very sweet. "And what's so good about making a book fly anyway? It will not make studying simpler, will it?"

"You're just jealous because I can do it and you can't," Rose looked hurt.

He shrugged. "And? I have a friend and will write her a birthday card now!"

"You can't write..."

"Rose. Hugo," Hermione said sternly. "Stop. Rosie, your book hoovering is very nice. And Hugo, if you go upstairs and get some paper and pens, we'll write the card together, okay? And you can draw a little something for Ophelia."

She looked after her son as he ran up the stairs but her daughter was still there and used the moment to get a full hug – not shared by her brother.

"Mummy, are you proud of me?" she asked, very softly.

"Of course I am," Hermione had to swallow hard but caught herself and kissed her girl. "And what did you learn today?"

As her Rosie told her about her day and she slowly but surely got up, her knees cracking slightly, she noticed her father observing her closely, standing the door frame. And she knew she could trust him to help her decide what to do.

xx

She hated apparating. Definitely. And it was her birthday and Daddy was still apparating with her. She had to cling to him again and couldn't even look for a moment where they were. She was curious, yes, but the apparating always upset her tummy and it only helped to smell at Daddy's neck for a while.

"It's okay, Ophelia," he whispered gently in her ear and rubbed her back for a moment before she felt him beginning to walk and she looked up.

"Where are we, Daddy?" she asked, not recognizing the building they were standing in front of. Large and grey and rectangular.

"We're a bit away from London," he explained gently and carried her towards the building.

"What are we doing here?"

"We're going inside," he smirked and, just as they stood in front of the doors, he looked in her eyes. "Can you walk?"

She nodded shyly and wriggled free, but grasped his hand as soon as she stood next to him. It was always better to hold Daddy's hand. It was safer, and his hand was always warm and large and when something dangerous happened, or she was afraid, she only had to squeeze it and he would look down and would pick her up. He never failed to do that. He suddenly, and she had not seen how he did that, carried a large, black bag in his other hand and pushed the door open.

A smell hit her. A strange smell. She sniffed and no, she couldn't place it. It wasn't not nice. Only a bit strange. She had never smelled it before and she had to glance at Daddy but he only took a sniff as well and kept on walking.

"Daddy?" she asked again and she knew her voice sounded a bit – small. "What is this smell?"

He sighed and picked her up. "This, my girl," he whispered in her ear, "is the smell of chlorine."

Chlorine. Never heard of it. It wasn't used in potions, or at least in none of the potions they had made together.

"What is chlorine?"

"It is used to disinfect water," he explained and his eyes softened when he saw her frown. "And this smell, Ophelia, is apparently, the typical smell of a public swimming pool."

"Swimming?" she asked, realisation dawning on her. "Are we going swimming?"

He nodded. "This is a swimming pool," he explained softly.

"But...but...but, Daddy, I can't swim," she shook her head.

"I know," he said and his voice had a teasing touch. "But do you think I won't teach you?"

She looked at him and her mouth fell open. He would teach her something again! Swimming! So she could decently look under the water without drowning. She could swim then. Daddy would teach her how to swim.

Did Daddy even understand how great he was?

xx

"You should tell me," her father said when Hugo and Rose had gone to tie the birthday card on the owl's leg. It was strange, really. Rose and Hugo were always complaining about each other – but when the one – or the other – needed help, they stuck together worse than glue. She was, in such moments, when she thought that the owl could nip at his finger, could hurt him, very much the older sister – looking out for her baby brother. And she loved the owl. Of course.

She sighed and caught her father's eye. "I was in the registration office today," she explained softly.

"Why?" her mother asked, coming into the kitchen and settling down on the chair next to Hermione. "John, tea?"

Her father nodded and filled water into the old, chipped kettle and switched it on.

"There are files there. Oh, the magical registration office."

"And?" Dad asked, leaning against the counter in the kitchen.

"It was – I was curious and when I went to see Snape the other day..."

"You went to see him?" her mother asked. "Why?"

She nodded. "Because of the laws. And if someone knows the laws it's him. And while he couldn't really help me, he had an idea and I sort of picked up on it and remembered that Harry had looked up his daughter in the registration office."

"You're talking in puzzles, dear girl," her father said gently, putting milk and sugar on the table.

"No, no, it makes perfect sense," she sighed and put her face in her hands. She was completely wound up – but a moment later, there was a hand on her back, rubbing soothingly. She still kept her face covered and peeked through her fingers. It was soothing seeing her dad throwing a pyramid teabag in each mug and putting them on the table as well. It was so normal. Calming.

"I am a Muggleborn and obviously Ronald is a pureblood. Any children I have as a Muggleborn are specifically marked in those files if they are witch or wizard. Any children of Ronald, as a pureblood, are marked if they are Squibs," she explained. "Hence, out children are marked. And I looked into the files."

"And Hugo's a Squib," Jonathan Granger concluded.

"Yes," she looked up in surprise. "How did you know?"

Her mother, next to her, still rubbing circles on her back, chuckled. "The first time you did magic was when you were about eighteen months and made the mobile over your head move very, very rapidly. John, do you remember? We looked all over her room for draughts and winds and whatnot."

"I remember," he smiled and poured the boiling water into the mugs. "A month later, you sent the trousers you didn't like flying across the room."

"And Rosie," her mother continued, "didn't you say that she started early as well?"

"Eighteen months," she sighed. "Yes. Same age as me, then, I suppose."

"Hugo's four, Hermione," her father took her hand and pulled it completely away from her face before he held it tightly. "And so far, you didn't tell us that he did anything and neither did he do anything here."

"You knew?" Hermione asked – startled.

"No, we didn't know. Of course not. We don't know a lot about that accidental magic in children," Judith Granger explained, "but he is not even interested in charms and spells and potions. He helps Miss Breaze with the moulding of dentures in the dentistry. Or at least pretends to help."

"And he's quite hand with the drill these days," her father chuckled.

"It's going to be horrible. And difficult."

"It won't be," Dad soothed. "It will be fine. He's just a normal boy. And a very lovable at that."

"No, I know that but..."

"Molly Weasley will flip," Mum nodded. "But that should be rather entertaining."

"Entertaining?"

"Of course, entertaining. And the chances that Ronald will not want to raise a Squib in the Wizarding World – those are quite huge, don't you think?" Mum continued. "And you can't pull them apart."

She gestured towards the window where she saw her babies playing together – actually, for once, playing, not fighting. And Hermione nodded. Nobody in their right mind would allow for two siblings to be raised separately.

xx

He knew he looked – well, naked. Ridiculous. Swimming trunks in black and his thin legs with the black hairs on it, his frame too thin and scars all over his chest and back and neck. He was not concerned about his appearance though. But he had never been this naked outside of his own flat and even there – well – Ophelia had seen the scars when she had walked in on him showering a few weeks before. She hadn't asked about them though, it was merely something of interest for her, something to be traced with her little fingers, and, with a towel around his waist, he had let her. It was, apparently, normal to her. But he knew that people in that public swimming pool would stare – and that was why he had chosen one (as carefully as he could with only two days worth of research) which was far away from London, in a non-magical area, and not highly frequented. And it wasn't, he noticed as he walked in, barefoot, with Ophelia on his arm. She had thoroughly enjoyed that warm shower beforehand, sitting on his forearm, her arms around his neck.

She looked, once more, every bit a Snape. Her legs were too thin, her body was, well, he was working on that and would tell Mary Kelly – if she continued to cook for them – that she needed more nutritious food. And her black swimsuit fit very well, her black hair clinging to her back and plastered to her head. She smiled so broadly and couldn't stop hugging him. No, he had no chance of putting her down and those few people that were in the pool – mostly older women and men – only spared them a glance before they swam again – duck-like – their head carefully held above water.

"Is that the pool?" she asked, shivering a little as they had not dried themselves after the hot shower and now stood in the cold. He had not left his wand. Oh no. Not even he would be so stupid. It was, perfectly concealed in a little hoop inside the leg of his swimming trunks. Intelligently enough, he had chosen those that looked like boxers – and the leg was long enough to hide it. But he did not dare to pull it out and cast warming charms. Not enough thought on his part but they would get into the water and move around a bit. That should keep them warm.

He had learned to swim – yes. Not in a swimming pool, not in chlorinated water. No. He had learned to swim in the Black Lake. First Year. Lily had taught him. A long time ago. Another lifetime. And he had practised. And now, he was here, with his girl, teaching his girl.

No – he was sure that he could have never had such a perfect child with Lily. Ophelia was all he needed. And all he wanted.

"Can we go into the water, Daddy?" she whispered in his ear and he smirked as an answer and simple stepped in on a ladder – her still in his arms.

She squealed a little, not loudly, and clung to him. The water was shallow – for him and it only reached up to his navel but her feet were hanging in the water and apparently, she disliked cold water just as much as he did. But – since his swimming trunks were completely hidden by water, he grasped his wand and cast warming charm on both of them – and that relaxed his daughter instantly.

She smiled and kissed his cheek and his nose and when he tread into deeper water, she let him twirl her around and held his hand underneath her tummy and helped her learn the basics of swimming.

He had never experienced something like that. Pride. And he was even happy. Happy pride. Proud happiness. Enough to make the formerly cold, bastard, surly, git of the dungeons who had never smiled and had never shown any positive emotion, kiss his daughter and smile at her and teach her to enjoy the water she was in. Enough to make him cuddle her and be surprised at the fact that he treasured something so much in his life.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_


	34. Chapter 34

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He had not expected her to pick up swimming right away – she splashed around more, flicked water in his face, and doggie-paddled in the water. But he had already decided that he would make sure she learned to swim decently. Just because, well, she loved to look under the water, as she said, in the bathtub at home and he certainly did not want to find her there, thinking she had drowned and then again, he had her future to think about. He could not bear the thought to send her to Durmstrang – too dark, nor to Beauxbaton – too flighty so it would leave Hogwarts. And the Black Lake was deep. And he would have to make sure, no matter if Slytherins in general (and his daughter in particular) were frowned upon that she would not drown there, even if some idiotic Gryffindors found it funny to levitate her there and let her drop into the water. Been there, done that. And is daughter was supposed to defend herself, rescue herself. He would teach her. And swimming was only the step.

She would not have his life at Hogwarts. But there were years to come. She was only 5 now. Only five.

And completely tired out from playing in the water for such a long time. He himself had to admit that he was exhausted as well. Watching his girl, taking care of her with those massive amounts of energy that she had stored somewhere in that little body of hers. Much more energy than he had. Obviously. Even though that energy had been completely gone by the time she was supposed to shower and wash her hair and dry herself off. No – she had just stood there, leaning against his thigh, very tiredly, very worn out and he had washed her and towelled her off and dressed her. And by the time he was dressed as well, she had almost fallen asleep. On the way home, despite the apparating, she was asleep on his arm, her head lolling against his shoulder.

It was a heady feeling, that. Truly, magnificently heady to have someone trust him that much. Rely on him and he had not fought the feeling and had sat next to her bed for a while – watching her sleep. She smiled a little, even in her sleep and had unconsciously grabbed her three-headed dog, held the hellhound (yes, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood – he knew) close to her chest, one of the heads underneath her chin and he reached out slowly and brushed his fingers slowly over her head. He had dried it with a spell and it was wavier than usual. Pretty, really.

He stifled a yawn himself and was almost tempted to enlarge her bed and slip in next to her, take a nap himself before dinner – but he would have to let Mary Kelly know that they were back – and maybe work on the base again. The base of the potion. The crux of the matter, really. It always destroyed the entire potion. Too strong. Again – a yawn and he got up heavily, almost stumbling over the tortoise (and he cursed the animal for the first time) and made his way down his apothecary after leaving Ophelia his Patronus. He would keep it closed – but he had to get the potion right. And soon.

xx

"I'll owl him," Hermione declared. "He has to come here and we have to tell him. What he tells his mother then is his problem. Not mine," she added and cautiously, summoned a bit of paper and a pen. She was living in a Muggle household. She would not use parchment and quill (just as Hugo had not used parchment but paper).

"Hermione, this is all new, what if he comes straight over?" Judith Granger cautioned.

"Let him," she shrugged and put the paper down on the table, "I put a note to Hugo's birthday card for Ophelia, inviting them for a birthday dinner for her tonight."

She had done it, yes. Defiantly. And well, he wouldn't say yes in any case. He wanted his girl for himself on that day and she understood that. But he would hopefully understand that she and her family really wanted to see him and his daughter. And it had been a only a post-it, really. A sticky note on the back of his birthday card. He would probably understand that. And she hoped that he would agree.

Especially since – well, he would not be prejudiced, she knew. He had said nothing about not letting Ophelia play with her son, even if he was a squib. He had not said anything – had just explained that he didn't want Hugo with him on her birthday. Nothing else. He had not even pulled a face. Nothing.

And besides, she knew it was a crackpot idea, but if Snape was there when Ron arrived – no. She could not pretend that Snape and her were an item. That was just idiotic and Snape would never agree to it.

Stupid idea.

She heard her parents talking but could not make out the words. And they weren't important and the moment. She had to write the note. She had to get this over quickly. Had to tell Ron and once that was done, she could get to work on the legislative proposal for the Department of Legislative Proposals. From there, and she knew Bill there who would probably speed up the process, it would go to the Wizengamot. And from there – it was hope and pray. Still, if she wrote it correctly, and in a nice, pro-wizard-manner, she could probably get it through.

But first, she had to make sure that her own children could stay – it was especially important for Hugo now. In the Wizarding World he would be an outcast – here, in this world – he was perfectly normal.

And that was not a fate – being an outcast – she wanted for her son.

She looked up determined at her parents – and set pen to paper.

xx

"Daddy?" Ophelia rubbed her eyes and the first thing she saw when she looked up was Skippy, perching on her stomach, looking at her with her shifty eyes – her shell a bright, happy blue. "Hullo Skippy," she smiled. "I was so tired after swimming. It's really exhausting. The turtle – tortoise – seemed to nod a little in the direction of the foot of the bed and she discovered Daddy's horse standing there. It magicked a grin on her face – it always did and Skippy's shell turned rainbow-coloured again.

"Is Daddy in the apothecary?" it asked the horse.

"Ophelia, I'm in the apothecary. Please come down when you're up but be careful down the stairs. And leave the tortoise up there, we'll only stumble over it. If you're hungry or thirsty, there's a sandwich and a glass of pumpkin juice on the table in the kitchen."

She nodded and looked pityingly at her pet. "Daddy doesn't want you down there," she explained slowly, "because it might be dangerous for you."

She set Skippy carefully on the ground, jumped over it – and straight through the horse (she loved doing that! It was always so nicely chilly and tingly) and bounced into the kitchen and there really was a large glass of pumpkin juice, cold, just the way she liked it, and she took a large bite out of the sandwich. Egg and cress. Just as she liked it. What a wonderful birthday, she thought again and smiled. Daddy knew how much she liked egg and cress sandwiches with pumpkin juice and he let her have it. It just stood there.

And Skippy had apparently followed her into the kitchen and made shuffling noises on the floor and she smiled at her pet. She was gorgeous and wonderful and pretty! Very pretty with her blue shell again. Blue. Mh. She would have to think about it but her thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise at the window. Ophelia looked up, surprised and saw an owl perching on the window sill.

There was – as far as she remembered and knew – no rule about owls. They never really got owls up here, only ever Daddy, down in the apothecary. There were absolutely no rules. She had even been allowed to untie scrolls sometimes when Daddy was there with her but Daddy wasn't here now. And he would probably be happy if she brought him the letter downstairs. He wouldn't have to interrupt his work for the owl and Daddy hated being interrupted. Especially now when he was working on Mary's potion. And she knew how important Mary's potion was for Daddy.

Because Daddy liked Mary – only, he never said so. But Ophelia thought that maybe, since she already thought of Mary as sort of her grandmother, albeit not her real grandmother, that maybe Daddy thought of Mary as a sort of aunt. Or maybe even aunt. He always looked at her so worriedly. And he worked so hard on that potion. Sometimes, he talked a little about it in his sleep. But she would never tell him that – he might just forbid her to sleep in his bed.

And sometimes, in his sleep, he told her that he loved her. Which was really amazingly cool. And sometimes, he spoke of someone called the Dark Lord and someone called Albus. But she didn't know who he meant and she was mostly too tired herself to pay attention.

So, no rules about owls. And she knew all the rules he had set. Ophelia shrugged to herself – and to Skippy and opened the window slowly, to let the large owl inside.

It swooped in – and as she had learned from Daddy, she first fed it a bit of her sandwich and then untied the rectangular envelope from its leg. Then fed it some more sandwich and it was off again. That had been – quite unspectacular. But there was a huge flower painted on the front and in large letters, which she traced with her fingers, was OPHELIA SNAPE written on it.

She had gotten a letter?

A letter for her?

OPHELIA SNAPE

That was her.

"Skippy, look," she gushed, "I got a letter!" She smiled and ripped the envelope open, so excited that she forgot to tell Daddy – and that was saying something.

No, she pulled whatever was inside out, so excited, wonderful, giddy and, slowly, with the help of her fingers, she read the crooked letters.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OPHELIA FROM HUGO

Hugo! Hugo had send her a letter! Her friend Hugo had written to her. A letter for her birthday. This day was getting better and better. Skippy, swimming and a letter of her own. Her first own letter!

Wow.

She laughed and grinned and smiled at the card and whooped a little and even though Skippy looked at her puzzled, she sat down on the floor and showed her tortoise what she had just received. "Look, Skippy, it's a letter from Hugo. Hugo is my friend. And he's written to me. For my birthday."

But then, she noticed, on the back of the card, a very yellow bit of paper and turned it around, and since she was already sitting on the floor, she carefully put the card down and and, again, slowly but surely, began to read what stood there. It was difficult. Very, very difficult.

But Ophelia Snape was determined. Very, very determined.

xx

He had it. He just had the base. It was perfect. The right amount of St-John's-wort. Just perfect. Adding the orange peel in a moment, then let it simmer for four hours. Maybe five. And the rest in, maturing for a day – and it would be done. He was sure of it. It would free Mary Kelly and he breathed a sigh of relief. A wonderful mushy-pea colour. Perfect.

He let his head fall back into his neck and breathed deeply. This would help her definitely. And it would definitely earn him a lot of money.

He smirked. Perfect. Just perfect.

The usual joy he had always felt when he had successfully created a potion was still there and though he had to admit that it paled in comparison to the joy he had felt earlier, with his little witch, it was still great. And this day – what a wonderful day! Ophelia so happy and splashing around him and he – creating this potion. A milestone, really. It would not only help those addicted to alcohol, but all the other addicts. Nicotine, Muggle drugs, any other form of addiction. He rubbed his neck when he heard the stomping steps of his little witch on the stairs.

It had been the right decision not to take a nap with her – and he would make it up to her. Or to himself. He wasn't sure which any more.

She stomped down the stairs and he had to turn around and a huge grin was plastered on her face.

"Sleep well?" he asked gently.

She nodded and in a moment, she was in front of him and pushed a bit of paper in his hands. "Look, Daddy," she said and was still grinning.

He raised his eyebrows and looked at the paper. HAPPY BIRTHDAY OPHELIA FROM HUGO

A birthday card. There was something drawn on it and despite all his good efforts, he could not even usually see what his own little witch drew and well, it wasn't any different with the little Weasley. There was a sun. That much he saw. The rest – might as well have been – anything.

He looked at his daughter. "Where did you get that?" he asked suddenly, suspiciously.

"An owl brought it," she explained happily.

"You let an owl into the flat? Are you completely insane now?" he thundered and turned the card around in his fingers.

"But, Daddy..." her lower lip began to tremble. "You gave me no rule about owls and I thought..."

He raised his hand and noticed the yellow sticky note stuck on the back of the piece of paper.

_Please consider coming to dinner tonight. Hugo will be happy and we'll make a nice birthday feast for your daughter. _

_Best wishes and Happy Birthday to Ophelia,_

_Hermione Granger. _

"Can we go?" Ophelia asked in a tiny voice and he only looked at her – and knew that his eyes were hard.

Didn't she know how dangerous a single owl could be? What a single letter could contain? That it could kill her?

xx

Hermione looked utterly worried and Jonathan Granger knew that she wanted the topic off the table. He knew that Hugo being a non-magic person wasn't that horrible. In fact, it wouldn't change anything. He was four. By the time he would have been ready to go to Hogwarts, he would be so completely immersed in their world, that he wouldn't probably want to imagine anything else. Besides, he would make sure that Hugo had as many chances to play in the dentistry as he could get. Or would have any other chances.

If he knew his wife correctly, and himself, there would still be brochures and information leaflets about all kinds of schools that they had considered sending Hermione to. Before they had learned about her being a witch.

Only, he knew it worried his girl – she was afraid of what would happen once she had told her ex-husband.

Ronald was – impulsive in matters like this. Still, it didn't help her (or his wife who had gone out into the garden to play with the children to stop waiting for Ronald – or an owl from Ronald) to just sit and wait and as he sat across from her on the table, he tried to smile at her, but she merely stared into her mug of cold tea.

"It never is as bad as you imagine it will be," he said gently and pried her fingers away from the mug and held her hand in his.

"I know," she tried a weak smile. "But he will blame me and he will – oh I can't even imagine what..."

There was suddenly a pop and both Hermione and John jumped a little.

"What's wrong now?" Ronald Weasley suddenly stood in the middle of their kitchen.

"Ronald, hello," he said and wanted to say more but was interrupted. His Hermione had gotten up, her eyes wild, as they always were when she was angry and she gleamed at her ex.

"Have you lost any kind of decency?" she shrieked. "Apparating in the middle of a kitchen? What were you thinking?"

"Emergency, as you wrote," he spat. "Here," he shoved the letter she had written earlier back at her. "What's the emergency?"

"Won't you sit down and have a cup of tea?" John tried to soothe.

"No, I want to know what the emergency is," he said coldly. "I was at work, Hermione and get an owl that there's something and you have to talk to me as soon as possible."

"You could have just apparated to the front door. But no – Ronald Weasley – like a sledgehammer in the middle of the kitchen," she spat back.

"If you thought there was an emergency, you would apparated straight into the kitchen of my parents," he argued.

"I can't. There are still anti-apparition wards around the Burrow," she argued.

"Will you tell me now?"

xx

"No, Ophelia, we cannot go and you will kindly explain what gave you the idea to simply let an owl in," Severus said quietly – in a voice he had not used in years. The teacher voice and Ophelia shrunk a little back – but only a little. A bit and for a moment, she seemed to think.

"You said nothing about owls, Daddy," she argued. "If you had said not to let owls in, I wouldn't have."

He sighed. No, of course he had not said anything. But why didn't she see that it was dangerous – oh.

Maybe, maybe because he had not been honest yet. Maybe because he had not explained yet that they lived in a not so nice area and that he was, well, not that well-liked. He would have to sit down with her – in peace and quiet and would have to explain that. No strange owls in the flat, not opening letter he had not seen first. The things people could put into letters – and it was well-known that she had a daughter now and that was his weak spot. Of course it was. He loved the girl and that was always a weakness.

Still – maybe he had been overreacting. No death-threat in the last three years after all.

"Can we go to Hugo? Only for a bit," she tugged on his sleeve.

"No, Ophelia," he shook his head, trying to calm himself. She was, after all, save and healthy and nothing had happened.

"But Daddy, please," she looked at him with those puppy-dog-eyes and found that, for the first time, he was resistant to them. Success. Finally.

"No," he shook his head again. "We'll have dinner and then you have to go to bed early. It's been a tiring day."

"I just slept," she argued and her eyes grew fierce and darker and she still held on tightly to him. "Just play with Hugo for a bit."

"No," he said sternly – again – and suddenly, there was darkness and a tug at the navel and spinning and he couldn't close his mouth and no – this wasn't happening. This wasn't true.

xx

"Hugo's a Squib," she said calmly, waiting for his reaction after having sat down again. It was no use shouting at him.

"Nice joke, Hermione," he spat.

"No joke," she shrugged. She had known it would be like this and the next hour or so would be spent arguing about whether she was joking or not. She should have made a copy of the file. A simple copy of the file.

"My son is not a Squib," he shook his head. "It can't be. There's only one Squib in my entire family and you're a powerful Muggleborn. That makes no Squibs."

She rolled his eyes. "Hugo is no Squib then. Let's just call him Muggle. It's much politer anyway."

Her father had left the kitchen some time during the argument and she felt that she needed him now. Still – it was a thing between him and her. Yet, she looked outside into the garden and had to smile a little. Her children playing tag with her parents. All four of them together.

"You're insane, Hermione," he followed her glance. "This has something to do with the fact that I want the children to live with me and Henrietta."

She shook her head. "No. If you don't believe me, just look in the file in the Registration Office. It's in black and white there."

"This has something to do with him," he cried suddenly, pointing outside.

She looked into the garden again and her eyes widened.

xx

She had never done that before but it was cool. And so much better than being in Daddy's arms when they went somewhere. No, and it was simple. She had just imagined Hugo's house and how much she wanted to be there and – then there was blackness and a tug in her stomach and suddenly, her and Daddy were in their garden and Hugo and his sister and Hugo's grandma and grandpa were running around them.

She looked carefully up in Daddy's face – he would be angry. But, no. His eyes were not angry. His mouth – yes. But that never counted. It was always the eyes that counted. And the eyes were shining with something.

And Hugo stared and Hugo's sister stared and Hugo's grandpa and Hugo's grandma stared. And she only smiled.

"Hullo Hugo," she said, "thank you for the letter."

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_

_**Sorry this is longer and later than usual. I began and there was something nice on the telly, so I stopped, then wrote again and somehow couldn't think where to end. **_

_**Thank you!**_

_**Another notice: My story Acquittal has been nominated for the SSHG awards over at LJ. Whoever did this - THANK YOU! The voting has not started yet but I hope it's alright if I tell you how and where to vote and that you will all do it. Acquittal, as a matter of fact, is cleaned up at the moment, all the typos I missed and everything else I can catch. Hope you'll do me the favour then.  
**_


	35. Chapter 35

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

If he had not already known for sure that she was his daughter – there, just there – he had another proof.

Even though, he had only ever managed to apparate short distances alone. Even if it was with his mother. Not that it had helped him – or her – much. But yes, he had done it. And ever since he had seen that his little witch was growing into a very powerful one – he had read up on it. There was a spell. A spell he could put on her – without any side-effects. Only that it acted like anti-apparition wards, applied to her - not to a building. Just to make sure she didn't apparate away from him. Didn't run away from him.

He had only waited for her to do it once. Though – maybe he shouldn't have done that. Maybe he shouldn't have waited. He had just been, well curious – but thinking about it now – the things that could have happened to her – no – no – better not think about it at all. She had apparated with him and since they had landed safely – albeit apparently in the Granger's garden – he would put the spell on her immediately. It wasn't difficult at all. A simple flick of the wand and she could be as determined as she wanted to be, she would not apparate anywhere.

And it was for her own safety. And for the continued well-being of his own heart. He did not fancy dying of a heart-attack before she was grown up. Certainly not. He wanted to see her grow into a woman. Even though he already knew that he would resent that fact.

"Hullo Hugo," she said so artlessly. "Thank you for the letter."

He used that opportunity and flicked his wand over her – and a moment later, she was safe. He would talk to her. Had to – also about the owl and dangers they could bring, letter-spells, poison on the parchment. An owl – in the future – would be checked by him first. He wasn't going through all this trouble to lose his daughter to a stupid letter-spell or poison he could not counter. He would never forgive himself. Never.

He looked up finally – and saw into the surprised, astonished faces of the two older Grangers – and the two little Weasleys. Well, the surprised and astonished face of one little Weasley. The other was busy talking to his daughter.

"Mummy helped me write it," he gushed and grinned. "But I painted the picture. It's you and your Daddy and Mummy and we're playing with the train set in the garden."

Hence the apparition to the garden and not the living room, he noted. Well, it would not happen again. Contrary to popular belief, accidental apparition did not say anything about the future power of a little witch or wizard. It was merely a sign of desperation, or very strong determination and happened more often than assumed. However, side-along accidental apparition was a sign of power – and determination or desperation.

In the case of his little witch there, dancing from one foot to the other with her little _friend_, it was probably the former. Determination. And well, it was a strange feeling to realise that she did not really want to be alone with him. But rather with her _friend_ and him.

He wanted to shake his head a little – wanted to push that feeling (jealousy – obviously), to the back of his head but just as he wanted to focus on pushing, he felt a hand on his upper arm. He turned swiftly and stared into the slightly smiling face of the senior Granger.

"Hello, Mister Snape," he said kindly. "How nice of you to come by with your daughter."

"It wasn't me coming by with my daughter," he explained coldly, "but my daughter coming by with me and we shall rectify that."

"No, stay," Missus Granger stepped to her husband's side. "The kitchen is occupied at the moment but...," she turned away, "Ophelia, what is your favourite dish?"

He seethed. Didn't he have a say in the matter where he spent his evening? With his daughter? On her birthday?

Obviously not. Obviously – his daughter (and she would get no story tonight – though – well, it was her birthday) was against him as well.

"I like cottage pie best," she explained matter of factly. "With lumps in the mashed potatoes."

He had to roll his eyes. Really. He wanted to drag her away from this wholesomeness. From this – sanity. It wasn't the way they lived. It wasn't the way she would ever live. Her almost adopted grandmother was an alcoholic who just now tried to get off it – oh the potion. Oh no. He would have to start all over again if they stayed much longer.

"Ophelia, Missus Kelly will cook dinner," he said softly – a mean tone in his voice – he knew. And a cold tone. He knew that too.

And suddenly, Ophelia seemed torn. Torn between her friend and her other friend. Torn between a woman she knew to be alone and Hugo with his large family. He had found her weak spot, apparently.

"You!" a heard a snarling noise behind him and turned around, wand at the ready. And smirked.

"Mister Weasley," he drawled slowly, his hand, immediately finding Ophelia's shoulder. An angry Weasley was able to do a lot of things – though to be fair he did not think any Weasley would harm a child. Not even his child. Though – he had not seen him for – more than a decade to be honest. 12 years? 13 years? Longer than that? Probably. But he had not changed. Not really.

Well, there were a couple of lines around his eyes and mouth but the hair was still flaming red and his ears and cheeks an angry pink.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted and Severus's hold on his daughter's shoulder tightened. "And who's that?"

"Ronald, don't you dare insult a guest of mine," Granger was coming running after him, her eyes flashing wildly, her curls bouncing and her mouth in a tight, angry line. She was – he had to admit it – quite impressive like this.

"A guest of yours? I don't want my children in such company," he shouted.

"And I don't want my children in the company of an angry, shouting father. So if you can't control yourself, I'll make you shut up," she had come close to him, hissing at him.

Severus heard – but he was tempted to simply wrap his daughter in his arms and apparate away. He had no business there. Absolutely none.

"Mister Gran...," he began, addressing her father who stood closest as his wife had taken the children to a place farther down the garden path.

"Please stay," the senior Granger said quietly. "Hermione's just told him that Hugo's a squib and – he obviously didn't take it well."

He swallowed. "Hugo is a squib?" he asked – not having believed that Granger had been honest before when she had insinuated that.

Jonathan Granger nodded. "The children don't know yet but we, and Hermione, thought he should know."

He nodded slowly. Oh – this would be difficult for the Weasleys. Agnes almost persona non grata, pushed away. Not even really acknowledged in their family and she had been a nice Squib. A kind person. A decent human being. On Dumbledore's orders, as every one else, probably, had been in those days – and giving him a safe house to stay. Nobody expected a Death Eater to stay in a Muggle home after all and after her marriage – well, nobody had known she was a Squib. But she had been ostracised – until her death.

Oh no, the Weasleys would be – less than accepting. At least at first. Severus Snape had to smirk malevolently to himself. There was some kind of justice. A little bit of justice. And he could have a little revenge on the Weasleys. Just a little on Ronald Weasley – for making his life difficult at Hogwarts. Subtly.

xx

Oh dear. Ronald on a roll. And Severus Snape in his garden with his daughter. What were they doing here? She couldn't very well ask with Ophelia standing right there, pressed against her father's leg. But it was her birthday after all and she had to acknowledge that. She glared at Ronald and took a step towards Snape and Ophelia smiled at both of them, nodding at Snape and then bending down.

"Happy Birthday, Ophelia," she said loud enough for Ronald to hear and stroked the girl's cheek with the back of her fingers. "Did you have a good day so far? Any good presents?"

She nodded happily. "My Daddy gave me a turtle – tortoise – and she's called Skippy and has shifty eyes and when I'm happy, her shell is rainbow-coloured and then he took me swimming and I learned a bit to swim and soon, I'll be able to look under the water without Daddy being afraid of..."

"Ophelia," Snape said sharply – it had, obviously been too much information. However – Skippy?

"Did you get her a mood-sensing tortoise?" she asked, straightening, looking in his eyes and he merely nodded. "Oh my," she gasped and a grin spread over her face. Mood-sensing turtles were one of the most expensive animals in the entire world. Maybe unicorns or Hippogriffs or Phoenixes would be more expensive. But their rarity – and helpfulness was turning it into a luxury only few people could afford.

"She's called Skippy," Ophelia repeated. "And she's very nice and sat on my stomach when I woke up from my nap."

"Ophelia," he said sharply again and missed the moment when Ronald lost his patience.

"What is going on here?" he asked again – not quite as loud as before but loud enough and she noticed an ever so slight smirk on Snape's face. It was only very quick and gone before anyone else but her had noticed – before his face fell into a glare – directed at her ex.

"Ophelia, won't you please run down and play with Hugo for a moment?" he told his daughter gently – his face not matching the tone of his voice and it seemed the little girl was just as surprised as she was but, a last glance directed at her father, let go off his hand and thigh and ran towards her son.

She wasn't sure how much he knew yet – Snape knew – but the smirk of her own father told her, that he had seen through it. Again. That Snape knew about Hugo. And had called him by his first name for the first time. This – coming from Snape was a clear sign. It was very obvious. By letting his daughter play with her son, he showed Ron very distinctly that he made no difference between a Muggle, a Squib, Witch, Wizard. That it didn't matter to a former Death Eater either. And this would most certainly turn the Weasleys, at least in some people's eyes (and she was sure this would come out one way or another – at some time in the future), the model Muggle-loving family into, simply put, hypocrites. Or at least Ronald. She wasn't sure yet which position Molly would take (contrary to her mother – she was sure that Molly meant well. And wanted their children to be fine. Despite her doing something wrong by telling her children about the rumours in the paper) and she wasn't sure about the rest of them but Ronald – this one was sure – was not amused.

No – well, he didn't even believe it yet.

"Is there something between you?" Ronald snapped. "Was the paper right?"

Snape raised his eyebrows but remained silent and she was – once more – tempted to just pretend that, yes, she and him were an item. If only it wasn't for her father.

"Ronald, please calm down," he said. "Hugo and Ophelia are friends."

"Who's Ophelia?"

"My daughter," Snape said silkily. "And I thank you for your hospitality," he added, nodding towards her father and then at her.

"No, stay for dinner, please. I'm sure Mum will cook with Ophelia and Hugo and Rose."

Ronald stood dumbstruck. He was obviously too shocked to say anything. He would explode, yes, eventually but for now, he was merely processing.

"No, thanks, we have to go. My housekeeper Missus Kelly is preparing dinner and is expecting us."

xx

He was sure Snape had something to do with it. The git. And Hermione telling lies about his son being a Squib. It couldn't be. Hugo was a great child and he would be an admirable wizard. He just needed a bit longer. But Neville had taken long and Neville was a good wizard now. Had a grasp on everything. He had taken long too.

Registration office – that was a rumour. Of course it was. Nobody could get in there and look at the files. They just had to wait until the magic manifested itself in Hugo as well. He was only three, no four, and he had plenty of time before he went to Hogwarts. It just wasn't on that he wasn't a wizard. It just wasn't happening.

She was just constructing this because she knew that he would have difficulties of having a Squib living with him. It just wouldn't be working in Godric's Hollow. There were only wizards and witches around – magic was used every day. As naturally as breathing and with his son there – no he couldn't do that.

Besides, he thought, looking at his boy, it would hurt Hugo horrible – if it was true (which, of course it wasn't) to see everyone doing magic but him. No, he could not possibly have Hugo living with him.

But since it was rubbish and since Hermione was making this up – since she wanted to keep the children – he would have to fight.

Though, he had to admit, it was strange. He had shown signs of magic early, Hermione apparently had, Rose had. Not Hugo. And if there was a Registration office – he would go there. Or maybe tell Harry and have Harry go there with him.

But it was ridiculous after all. Very, very ridiculous. And Snape. How did he fit in there? Oh, yes, Snape would never let his child (if it was his child) play with a Squib. Never. Snape detested Muggles. That was so true. And a housekeeper – pah. Of course he had no housekeeper. Maybe a house elf.

He couldn't figure it out though, how he fit into all of that. Not at all. How nicely he said good bye to Hermione and her father and then called for his daughter and picked her up. Said good bye to his children and Hermione's mother and then walked up to him again.

He was with Hermione – and he was nice to his children. And had a child.

He wasn't sure whether it was jealousy – after all, the love for Hermione had vanished almost completely but seeing another man take his place there – no. He couldn't let that happen.

"Thank you for the invitation," he said again to Hermione's father.

"Why don't you come on Sunday? I suppose your apothecary will be closed then?" he asked and Snape's daughter made huge, huge puppy eyes and he saw her whispering something in her father's ear and Snape arching his eyebrows.

"Thank you. We will be there," Snape said suddenly and that alone was too much for Ronald Weasley.

He lifted his wand and as soon as Snape's back was turned, he wanted to shoot a hex – when he felt himself stiffen and falling over and suddenly, he found himself flat on his back – and Snape looming over him, with his daughter looking down curiously.

"Do not try that, Weasley," the git said silkily. "You'll always lose."

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_


	36. Chapter 36

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He was just in time. In time to add another ingredient, in time to send Ophelia to the coal flat to fetch Mary Kelly, in time to see the hopeful eyes in the trembling woman, in time to have dinner with his little witch and Missus Kelly, who tried very hard to remain calm on the table and to gulp down the cottage pie she had made – had wanted to make. He wasn't a monster – not all the time. He would have let her be in the coal flat – she had chosen to eat with them – to make Ophelia her favourite dish.

But she was – tense. Hurting. Realising how she had lived her life. How much she was missing. What she had lost. She realised it, every day. Every day a little bit of what she had lost.

He could relate to that. And he knew that in this – she was alone. No child – not even such an enchanting one as Ophelia – could save her from the agony she was going through. Nothing could.

No one could.

Time – as stupid, as silly as that sounded – was the only thing that had the chance to heal her. Not completely, of course. She would never be healed. But time would make her better – gradually. Until the stabbing pain turned into a dull throb and from there, into itching memory, a badly healed scar that hurt during every weather change. That was angrily pink and that she couldn't bear to see any more. But it would get better. Eventually.

He doubted, however, that Ophelia could help. Ophelia, such a lovely child – had forced him to lunch at the Grangers. Just because she was Ophelia and embodied a sort of person that he had never imagined could exist. Honest. Helpful. Kind. Caring. Loving. Unprejudiced. Fair. And as such, Ophelia was almost, despite her flaws, and despite the fact that she could be too stubborn and almost too Slytherin for her age. Too loyal. Too good to be true. And seeing that – after having lost a child – no, he was not a sympathetic, tender-hearted person – far from it, in fact – but she had earned his respect. As simple as that.

The way she sat there – quite rigid – and still listened to Ophelia telling her all about her swimming with him – no, this was admirable. And he generally did not admire many people.

Or any, for that matter. Maybe.

Apart from, well, he had to admit that it had been quite interesting to see Hermione Granger standing her ground like that against Weasley. Not that it was difficult standing one's ground against him – but still. They had been married after all.

He knew – that married people did not often love one another. He had seen it first hand. Couldn't imagine why his parents had married and had him. Or how. Well – the how had probably been – well. But the why was difficult for him to understand.

Though – love to a woman, after all was said and done – was nothing to want to achieve. Nothing he wanted. He loved his daughter – and that was about all the tender feelings he could ever have for another human being. And of course, the admiration, silent, quiet, nothing he would ever express, towards Mary Kelly. And a slight sort of – he couldn't name it – towards Hermione Granger.

That was it. He could not feel more for any other person. His feelings were completely tied up for Ophelia. And the bit of admiration and whatever. Definitely. End of story.

He only listened – and thought – and did not pay as much attention to his daughter than he normally would. But even after dinner, Ophelia had made Mary Kelly sit with them, with the tortoise, pale like the moon (she was tired, definitely), walking slowly over the table, being observed by Mary Kelly and his little witch, he did thought more than he listened. And that was usually not the case. But to be honest, that day had been rather exhausting. Very much so.

Ronald Weasley had it coming. No one tried to hex Severus Snape when he turned his back. Those days were long over. And nobody tried to hex Severus Snape when his back was turned and he carried his daughter. Especially not then. Not even someone like Ronald Weasley. Especially not someone like Ronald Weasley. Who could never, in his life, would be able to get through his shields.

That man, obviously, was still as impulsive, still as stupid, still as not-thinking as he had been all those years ago. And still not any better to see a shield. And a hex coming. How he had ever been praised as someone who had played a large part in defeating he-who-had-not-really-been-called-by-his-name-since, Severus did not know and did not understand. It was a miracle, really. He understood Potter, of course, since, well, he had to, and Granger, since she had the brains. Really, but Weasley? What had he done? Maybe – oh, he had heard things. The portrait had been most forthcoming back then about telling him – Slytherin that he was – and Weasley had taken off.

No, true, he would most anything to get back to the Weasleys. The entire family. He knew it was vindictive and that he was being a bastard – but – he had protected George Weasley. He had given him his life. By taking his ear, yes, but he had still been alive. He still was alive, and apparently married to Angelina Johnson and breeding like any good Weasley did, and they were still amongst those that still did talk about him. Apparently, of course. Who still did not accept that he had played a role. Who had boycotted one of those evil award-winning ceremonies he had been invited to (no, he had not gone).

He did not understand that either, to be honest. He had always taken the Weasleys, especially the Weasley parents as people who forgave rather easily. Not this time. Apparently. Still, he did not really mind. But a little revenge – no, it didn't hurt.

Even if it meant taking Granger's side. And having to have lunch with them on a perfectly good Sunday.

Besides – Ophelia had promised him to be good. Had promised to eat all her greens. Everything that he wanted her to eat. Besides, she was a good girl and she deserved to play with the Hugo Weasley boy. For not making a fuss when he wanted to leave. That certainly screamed reward.

Even if it meant taking Granger's side. And the side of her family.

"I think you should bring her to bed," Mary Kelly said suddenly – softly – her hand on his arm.

Ophelia had fallen asleep, leaning against her, her lips opened slightly and one of her arms holding onto Mary Kelly.

He nodded – angry at himself that he had not immediately reacted when the tortoise had turned pale moon-coloured. And he had wanted to talk to her about the apparition and the letters and the owls before going to bed. And had been too lost in his thought. Not thinking about his daughter enough.

"I'll do the dishes," she whispered, carefully disentangling Ophelia from her side.

"There is no need, Missus Kelly," he whispered back. "I didn't do this because I needed a housekeeper."

She nodded and lifted the girl in her arms before she handed the softly whimpering child to him. "I know. But I have to repay it somehow."

He frowned but said nothing. There was nothing to say. He understood obligation. And the need to do it. Definitely.

His little witch, on the other hand, had her arms immediately around his neck and calmed a bit, kept on sleeping and he carried her, as careful as he could, even more careful than he had carried the sword of Gryffindor to the Forest of Dean, in her bedroom and, with a flick of his wand, prepared her bed to get ready for her. He laid her down gently and, another flick of his wand, her clothes were gone and she wore her most favourite (her expression) nightgown. With little snakes (she had picked it) on it. He pulled her comforter over her and tucked her in, bent down, brushed the hair from her face, kissed her forehead, and had to smile at her. His big girl. Five years old.

"I love you, my little witch," he whispered so softly that he was sure nobody, not even her in her sleep could hear him and, making sure she was sleeping peacefully, made his way out of her room and back to the kitchen.

And returned not to a sight he had expected.

xx

Respect.

She knew. She respected him. A lot. For what he had done. Not only for what he had done during the war – but for the way he had acted at her house – no, her parents' house earlier. So cold towards Ronald but at the same time, so secure. So sure of what he was doing. Taking her side, really. Making sure Ronald knew that he – especially he – who had a reputation – did not mind his daughter, his only daughter, the most precious thing in his life, playing with her Squibson. Or Muggle. She was still unsure and it did not matter. But no matter what – Severus Snape had shown him that there was no need for prejudice. None at all.

Not that Ronald believed her in any case and she knew she had to go back to the Registration office and talk Morna Bux into letting her copy the file – or tell Harry and let Harry explain. He had to understand though. Understand that their son was not the powerful wizard he thought he would be. And make him understand that it did not matter after all.

It apparently did not matter to Severus Snape – and she had been surprised about that fact. Honestly. Had not thought he would react this way.

So – she respected him.

Besides, and at that thought, an evil grin spread over her face, he had knocked Ronald down. With his back turned – almost. He had just spun around, with his daughter in his arms – and had knocked him flat on his back. Just like that. And the way he had towered over him – it had been funny. She had to bite back a laugh. Truly. The way little Ophelia had bent down, had frowned and had asked her Daddy why the poor man with the funny-coloured pink ears had fallen down – ridiculous.

Of course Ronald didn't understand that. He had been less than amused and had taken off – just after she had revived him. Without saying good bye to his children. Had just stomped off. Still as inconsiderate as he had ever been.

But oddly enough – no, she did not mind. All those little things – they made sure that he would not get his children permanently. Not like this. Not with forgetting to say good bye. Definitely not.

"Still up, my girl?" Dad suddenly stood in the doorway to the living room. She had gotten comfortable on the couch, had read a bit, after her parents had gone to bed. Wasn't tired. Thinking too much.

"I am," she smiled gently and pulled her knees up, her cheek resting on them.

"It's quite late," he said gently.

"Early," she smiled, looking at the time. It was indeed later than she had thought. Half past one. And work tomorrow.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked and when she just smiled back and patted the couch next to her, her father was immediately beside her and she could not help herself. It was like old times when he came into her bedroom and hugged her and cuddled her just before she fell asleep. It was the same, really. She didn't feel like over thirty. More like maybe eight.

He lifted his arms a little and she dived under, her head resting against his chest and her arm across his stomach. Warm and cuddly and her Daddy. Would always be her Daddy.

"Did you ever talk to Ronald about all this?" he asked her gently, rubbing her upper arm, stroking her hair.

"I tried, Daddy," she whispered back. "He didn't quite understand, I think. And he didn't even try. I'd say, Ron, do you think it's normal? Do you think married people just live the way we do? Just next to another, not really together? And he didn't really answer. He'd just say that we were normal, that he had a job, I had a job, I wasn't home enough and that was it. I tried, Daddy. I tried fixing it. I didn't want to end it this way. And I think, I don't know, I think he thought that me, wanting to move out was spontaneous. But it wasn't. I talked about it. I just don't think he listened."

"Mh," he replied and pulled her a little closer and kissed the top of her head. "I don't think you were compatible, love."

"You were angry, weren't you? That we didn't come here as often as we went to his parents," she asked, looking into his eyes.

"Not angry, no. We missed you and the children. And Christmas without you, Hermione, that was – not the same. I just thought it was strange that he never felt comfortable around here."

"He never did," she whispered. "Ronald is – a kind person – when he wants to be. But he took the children for granted, he took me for granted and he forgot where I came from. He and his family, Daddy, they're famous in their world to be Muggle-loving, but he was still scared when he was directly confronted with them."

"I think our toaster could tell a story about that," he chuckled slightly and seemed to sniff her hair. Daddy always used to do that when she was little – he probably still loved doing that. It made her smile. It made her happy. It made her feel safe.

"Poor toaster. Didn't expect there was a spell coming towards it," she answered and sighed. "Daddy, I don't think I want to leave here."

"You don't have to," he answered, chuckling a little. "Your mother and I we talked about a little annexe. Will be no problem."

"Really?"

"No problem, love," he replied and hugged her and kissed her again.

She had to sigh and snuggled up to him. And she was glad she still could do that. Even at her age.

"I think though, Hermione, that you should maybe go to Ronald's parents. And explain them about Hugo."

She nodded slowly. "I don't think they will believe me either. But I will."

"And if you want, I could come with you. Or you take Mister Snape. I'm sure he'd make an impression."

She pulled back slightly – and saw into the boyishly grinning face of her father. She slapped his arm – then snuggled back against him. Pretending, just for a moment pretending that she wasn't an adult and that Daddy could still solve all her problems.

xx

She was crying. Her face in her hands, her back heaving, her shoulders jerking. She was definitely crying her eyes out. He shook his head and moved the table, the dirty dishes forgotten.

"Missus Kelly," he said as gentle as he could – he didn't want to scare her after all.

"I'm sorry, Master Snape," she looked up – looking dreadful. "I just..."

"No need," he replied and sat next to her, conjuring two cups of tea. He had no idea why he did it. Maybe it was Ophelia's influence. Maybe it was – partly pity. Or – never felt before – sympathy. But that woman – she deserved to talk about it. Whatever it was. And she deserved not having to call him by that dreadful title. She respected him no matter what she called him. Even though – he was younger than her, and it was her place to say anything but – no, not Master Snape. Sounded like she was his house elf. Worse than housekeeper. Worse than anything.

"Not Master Snape," he said – causing her to look at him puzzled. "Severus," he added.

She swallowed and nodded. "Mary," she replied.

"It is," he began very slowly, "very kind of you to care for Ophelia so much. It..."

"Is difficult," she finished the sentence for him and tried a very, very weak, very watery smile, "My daughter-in-law was pregnant when they got...hit. I can't help myself imagining what the child would be now. At Hogwarts, not at Hogwarts. Boy, girl. Nice as your child. Ophelia is a wonderful gift. Don't take her for granted."

"I don't," he shook his head. "I certainly don't."

"She loves you very much. It's the most precious, the most important thing in the world," she choked the last two words – and broke down, crying, sobbing, not being able to breath properly and suddenly, she had moved to his side – and he knew that she wasn't completely thinking any more, the straing, the crying, everything, muddling with her thinking and she had her head on his shoulder and her hand on his arm, clutching it.

Ophelia was to blame, really, he thought, as he turned slightly and let her hug him more fully – and let her cry on his shoulder – his arms, tentatively, carefully, slightly, around her.

_**xx**_


	37. Chapter 37

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**Thank you – and a dedication to Alabaster Princess – who listens to all my questions concerning everything British (and who shares Sev with me)**_

_**xx**_

He had, as a precaution, looked the door to the coal shed. He did trust Mary – he did not trust her addiction. It had been – no...

He had never seen someone crying that much. Crying so hard. Sobbing. And fragments of words. Of sentences. Names. Joe, her husband, obviously. In bed one morning. Cold. His face in a mask of terror – even in death, his eyes wide open.

He could understand her addiction. He didn't trust him. But he could understand.

James, her son – Magda, her daughter, Simone, her pregnant daughter-in-law. Basically decapitated by a lorry somewhere on the M4. The lorry driver, drunk and losing control and the three of them – innocent. And still, it had killed them. Their car underneath the lorry.

She had not seen them. Had not been allowed to see her children without their heads. Understandable.

He had not thought that someone could even bear so much tragedy. That someone could actually survive this. No one probably should and even he had been close to going down to the pub and buying the rest of the Silvergin they had there. And drinking it all.

He could understand that. He wouldn't want to be confronted with this. But she was still alive. She was still a kind woman, she was obviously very concerned that he would throw her out after her emotional outburst.

He might be English – but he would not throw anyone out just because they displayed an almost Mediterranean bout of grief. She deserved it in any case.

She was entitled. Definitely.

He didn't even want to imagine – Ophelia. No. Better not go there.

So – he had locked her in. Simply because he had been tempted to drown the horrors she had told him in incomplete sentences and over a long span of time. By the time he had brought her to the coal flat, by the time he had made sure that Ophelia was safely asleep and breathing evenly, by the time he had changed into this nightclothes, then out again, by the time he had taken a shower because he needed to scour (if such a thing was possible) himself from those pictures that his active imagination had brought him, by the time he had knelt down on the floor next to Ophelia's bed, by the time he had decided that he was, after all, a wizard, and could easily enlarge her bed, by the time he had decided to just lie down in her bed, by that time – it had been early morning and almost time to wake up.

But the little body snuggling to him, holding him, that little body soothed him.

And Severus Snape knew – that after that night, nothing would ever be the same. And it had changed him. And he had already an idea.

xx

Usually, she woke up slowly. She liked waking up slowly – opening the eyes just a little bit and realising where she was, that she was either in her bed or in Daddy's bed, discovering whether Daddy was there or if Mary Kelly was already making breakfast. Today though, her eyes snapped open.

She was in her own bed. But Daddy was there. She immediately noticed the arms holding her tightly and the very Daddy-smell that he always had when he bathed or showered the night before. Smelled like his soap and shampoo.

But why was Daddy in her bed? Wasn't he feeling well? Did he have a nightmare? Was he alright?

Ophelia sat up quickly and shook him. This was not the time to play silly games until he woke up. Certainly not. He had to wake up. Right now!

"Daddy!" she cried worriedly and he blinked.

Oh – he blinked. He was okay. He was fine.

"Daddy, why are you here?" she asked – throwing herself at him, on his chest, hugging him. She had been worried about him in her bed. He was never in her bed. Never. Only when he read her stories before she went to sleep. He had never, never slept in her bed before.

"Ophelia," he groaned but his arms, somehow, had sneaked around her and held her there on his chest, "why are you so awake this morning?"

"I'm always awake in the morning," she argued and tried to glare at him. "Why are you in my bed?"

He seemed to think for a moment, then, instead of answering, sat up a little and pulled her with him. "Because, little witch, your bed, I found this morning, is a lot more comfortable than mine."

"It isn't," she shook her head. "Your bed is more comfortabler."

"More comfortable, Ophelia, not more comfortabler," he corrected her and he grimaced when she squeaked into his ear. She didn't just squeak. Daddy always said she squeaked without a reason but she never did. But if he suddenly got up and stood up and she was suddenly in the air, she had good reason to squeak, didn't she?

"Is today Sunday, Daddy?"

"No, today is Friday, Ophelia. And do not try to tell me that you absolutely have to see that Hugo Weasley boy today, because..."

"I promised, Daddy," she rolled her eyes. "I will eat every vegetable and I will be nice and kind and be good and I will not beg to see Hugo until Sunday."

"Yes," he said slowly and carried her into the kitchen, in her nightclothes. But how -

"Did you bring me to bed last night?" she asked curiously.

"Indeed. After you have fallen asleep at the table, and you know what I think about that," he replied and sat her on the counter next to the cooker.

"Where's Mary, Daddy?"

"Still sleeping," he said and looked at her. "Ophelia, there are a few more rules now and we have to talk about them."

xx

"Harry?" Hermione knocked carefully on the door to his office and stepped inside.

"Hermione," he grinned and stood up immediately, hugging her.

She had made up her mind. She would not go to the Weasleys alone. Strength in numbers. No, she would, and she had talked to her parents about it how had agreed during breakfast, invite them to her parents house. Or maybe the annexe they wanted to build (yes, magically – but she would have to get planning permission before they could do anything). Either way, she had decided not to go to the Burrow to tell them. She needed to be in her setting now. And she couldn't possibly be crowded by too many Weasleys when she told them. She would probably be hexed within an inch of her life – or maybe not.

And Harry – he was the way to do it.

Besides, she had thought about it, long. Well, she thought she had thought about it for a long time but it had turned out that she had fallen asleep in her father's arms late that night. So – well, no, she had thought about it.

Severus Snape was the right person to be there with her. It would signify something. It would most certainly signify that she had an ally – that being the mother of someone who had a squib wasn't the end of the world. On the contrary. It was the beginning of something wonderful for Hugo. That way – he would not be in the shadow of his bookworm-sister. That way, he could be himself. Without any pressure.

But, no, having him there, with the reputation of not even letting Muggleborns into his apothecary (which was, of course, nonsense), the reputation that he was still harbouring despise towards Muggles and Muggleborns (which was, of course, nonsense as well – the mother of his child had been a Muggle after all, wasn't she?), it would show the Weasleys that they were hypocrites who never had a Muggle in their house. Oh yes. And Severus Snape would more easily agree to coming to their house than going to the Burrow. If he did at all.

No, she would not trick him. She would be honest. To a certain extent.

But he still needed Harry to agree to let the Weasleys know she wanted to see them. An owl of hers would most likely be ignored these days. At least from Ron. And who knew what Ron would say to his parents.

"Harry, I need to talk to you for a moment," she said and wriggled out of his arms.

"Did something happen?" he asked and gestured towards a chair. She nodded and sat down.

"I need to see – and talk to – the Weasleys," she said honestly.

"Why?"

"There is a matter of some importance and I'm sure..."

"Oh, the fact that Ron thinks you're playing dirty and pretend that Hugo's a Squib?"

"What?" she asked.

"Ron turned up last night and was ranting that you're trying to steal the children and that you're using such idiotic ideas like Hugo is a Squib."

"Hugo is a Squib," she said coldly. "Even though I decided that I prefer the term Muggle. My son Hugo is a Muggle. He cannot do magic."

Harry chuckled. "That can't be, Hermione. You're very powerful and Ron's powerful. I don't know what you're trying to achieve but this isn't working."

She shook her head. "Harry, I'm not trying to achieve anything. Go upstairs, check the file – see for yourself. Hugo is not a wizard," she said slowly – slowly enough for a three-year-old to understand.

"You're not serious," he seemed pale and – odd.

"Why does everyone – everyone – think I'm joking? And why does everyone think it's the end of the world? Why does everyone still believe that not being a wizard is a bad thing for my son?"

He seemed to think for a moment – and remained silent. Pale and silent.

"Why is it such a problem for all of you?" she cried.

"It's not a problem," he shook his head after a moment, "it's just very, erm, surprising."

"Surprising, yes, your the tone of your skin tells me at the moment, that you think it's the end of the world. That it's something horrible," she shook her head. "I don't get it."

"No," he sighed. "It's not the end of the world but – it's just very, very surprising."

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter, does it? Does it change Hugo? He's still the same."

"No, he's not the same," he looked at her. "He's not able to live in our world, Hermione."

She almost choked on her own spit. On the words that were on her tongue. "I can't believe you, Harry. I know it's a shock but it's not as if he's a dark wizard threatening to change your life forever. He's a child who wants to be a dentist. And maybe he'll want to be a lorry driver, or a teacher, or a social worker, or a I don't know, vet, surgeon, clown. And he'll be one of those things. But he will not be someone slaving away in this bloody Ministry. And that's bad?

"I'm shocked, Hermione. Nothing more, nothing less, it's just the thought that he..."

"Tell the Weasleys I want to invite them for a meal in the near future," she said angrily and stood up. "I can't believe that even Snape was more accepting that you were," she muttered and walked away.

Pretending not to hear him when he said "Why does Snape know about this?"

Awful. This was the reaction she would get. From everyone. Shocked and not knowing how to deal with it.

Except, really, Snape had been different. He had just accepted it. Had sent his daughter to play with her son. Had just done it.

So atypically Snape – or was it?

Truth be told, she was looking forward to that lunch on Sunday. And if she had a chance, she would get him to help her with the Weasleys. And she hoped he would do it. It would certainly have an effect.

And why was she thinking so much about Snape anyway, she thought – just as she made her way upstairs. She needed a certified copy of the file. Otherwise nobody would ever believe her.

xx

"It's dangerous, really, Daddy?" she asked again and stared at Mary Kelly, who had come up some time when Daddy had explained why she could not bring them somewhere again any more. Not until she was almost grown up (and that was really silly. She would never run away from Daddy – but he seemed to think so. Poor Daddy. No, she had to hug him then because he really thought she would run away from the best Daddy anyone could ever have? How stupid was Daddy sometimes?). And well, it wasn't so bad – as long as Daddy allowed her to see her friend Hugo. And she had the strange feeling he would.

Just because, well, he had said that Hugo could not do magic. And well, magic was nice but when Hugo was with her, she could do it. And Daddy had said, that maybe, only maybe, Hugo's Daddy would not like it that Hugo could not do magic (how silly was that) and that Hugo's Mummy (well, he had actually said 'Hermione Granger, the Hugo Weasley boy's mother) would probably need help. Though help with what – he had not explain. Silly Daddy. He never really said things without complaining – but he had looked up at the ceiling and had stopped immediately when he had noticed he had talked about Hugo's Mummy. And that was really, really strange.

And the letters – and the owls – she didn't know why people would want to do something ugly to her – but Daddy had said that it was dangerous and that in the future, there was a new rule that she had to alert him if there were owls and he would check them first. It was okay. Nobody but Hugo wrote her anyway and Daddy was almost always around anyway. She could do that – easily. As long as she knew she wasn't supposed to do it.

"But we will still go to them on Sunday?" she asked suddenly.

"Do I look like someone who breaks his promises?" he asked back – and, oddly enough, produced a vial from the pocket of his robes and put it in front of Mary.

"No," Ophelia shook her head but neither of the adults seemed to listen to her.

"Is that...?" Mary asked, her eyes really, really large and wide.

"Finished this morning," he nodded. "You might experience dizziness so you should better move to the sofa. Did you drink in the last 24 hours?" he asked and seemed to look deeply into Mary's eyes.

Oh – oh – oh.

Was that the potion that Daddy tried to make for Mary that she never had to drink again? Was that finished? It would be absolutely awesome. Really. She stood up slowly.

"I haven't drunk any alcohol, no. Not in the past 72 hours," she said soberly and sat on the sofa. Ophelia knew there something of great importance going on – and she could see that Mary was scared. She shot her father, who had gotten up as well, a look and quickly ran to Mary's side.

"You don't have to be afraid," she whispered with a smile, took her hand and held it between her own two hands, tightly.

"I'm not afraid, sweetheart," she said, but her smile seemed odd.

"There," Daddy said and he handed Mary the vial. "You should lie down if you feel faint. Ophelia, you have to get up when she wants to lay down, understood?"

Ophelia nodded instantly and clutched Mary's hand tighter when she breathed deeply – and gulped it all in one go.

She went pale – and her mouth opened and the vial clattered to the floor.

And Ophelia was suddenly very scared.

_**xx**_


	38. Chapter 38

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He didn't know what was happening. It was – not what he had expected at all. She should have been fine immediately. The effect, the stopping to feel the need for alcohol, the physical effects of the withdrawal, the symptoms should have stopped straight away. And Ophelia seemed to be very worried about Mary Kelly.

And frankly – so was he. She sat, ramrod-straight on the couch, obviously trying desperately to swallow, pale, drawn, her eyes wide and shocked and fearful.

His mind ran at triple speed. She should have felt faint, yes, or should have collapsed, yes, but this? No, he had not really thought that this could happen. And what was it, that was happening?

"Mary?" he asked and moved a little closer, seeing that Ophelia was still clutching the woman's hand, holding it tightly, and no, she wasn't shaking, she wasn't trembling. That much, at least, was gone – but the rest? It was all very strange.

"Yes?" she asked back, her eyes still wide but focused on him. She was so pale. Ghostly pale. He had made a mistake. Some horrible – horrible – mistake. He had done something to her – something he had not expected. His worst case scenario – in his head – when he had calculated and tried and thought – had been that the potion was not working at all. And now? Now he had – done something to her.

As if the woman didn't have enough on her plate already he had – probably made her sick. Or worse.

"Ophelia," he said softly, "get Missus Kelly, Mary, a glass of water, please."

Ophelia shook her head viciously. "Cannot, Daddy. She needs me. I have to..."

He groaned. Yes. It looked like it. Mary Kelly was holding on tightly to Ophelia was well and he could just as well summon a glass of water – though – he didn't want his daughter in there when something happened to Mary.

"Mary, how are you feeling? What's happening?" he asked – trying not to sound as worried as he felt. He hadn't made a mistake with a potion in years. Not like this.

"I – I – I don't know," she replied and moved her head slowly and looked at Ophelia. "Sweetheart," she said gently and squeezed her hand. Ophelia, his little witch, smiled.

"Are you okay, Mary?" she asked innocently.

"I feel – fine," she said and a bit of colour returned to her face. He didn't understand. Not at all. He always understood what effects his potions had – at least had a general idea. He knew that some people were allergic to some things but he could predict it jolly well what would be happening. Not here. Severus Snape was confused. Very, very confused.

And his confusion only grew when Mary Kelly broke out in a beaming smile. "I feel fine," she repeated, her tone very, very disbelieving and slouched a little, bent over, picked Ophelia up (who, naturally, squeaked), pulled her on her lap and cuddled the girl within an inch of her life. At least that was what it looked like. "I feel fine," she repeated. "There's nothing. I feel perfect. It's gone. It's all gone. I don't feel like I need it any more. I'm not shaking, I don't have a headache, I don't have that weird stirring in my stomach. I feel – fine," she laughed now and Ophelia was – cuddling her back, snuggling to her and still squeaking. But only a little.

No – he didn't understand. Did the potion take a moment to take effect? A shockingly long moment during which the drinker could only sit and stare wide-eyed? Was pale and not responsive? Or was it something else? Was she feeling something she shouldn't?

"Missus Kelly, are you sure you feel fine?" he asked again – softly and bent down – ignored his daughter and cupped the woman's chin in the palm of his hand – made her look up – colour had returned to her face – her eyes, while still larger than normal, not red, the pupils normal coloured, the irises – a warm brown – the colour of very strong tea, probably. Her forehead wasn't sweaty at all.

"Severus?" she asked him, her eyes – shining like he hadn't seen them before, "it still is Severus, isn't it?"

He had to blink briefly – that was the only way he could think of from making sure he was awake – other than pinching himself which was – at the moment – impossible, since he had Mary Kelly's chin in one hand – and she held his other.

"Yes," he replied voicelessly. "But – just tell me about any symptoms."

She shook her head. "Nothing. I drank it and there was nothing. I couldn't – there was nothing. I felt fine. Instantly."

"You didn't look like it," he let go off her chin and jerked his hand free off hers. Stood very, very straight.

And she – she only smiled, looked briefly at his daughter, nodded at her, and, the girl scrambled off her, and sat quietly on the couch, watching with interested eyes. And so did he. Mary Kelly smiled still – she had probably never smiled so much in the past 20 years, got up and before he knew what was happening, the woman was hugging him.

Hugging him.

Again. She was short – quite – and had to stand on her tip toes before she pressed a kiss on her cheek. "You're a good man, Severus. Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

He raised his eyebrows. Yes – this woman was happy now. But she would have to deal with what had happened. She would have to face it soberly. She would have to understand what she had lost. She would probably have to grief again. And he did not want her falling so hard. She was a good woman. Definitely a good woman. Deserved to be – with someone who did not – no.

Severus Snape was confused but looking over Mary's shoulder, he saw his little witch smiling at him and slowly, he wrapped his arms around her as well. He didn't hold her tight – no – he was not used to hugging adult people – had only done it once – had only hugged her in – decades. And Ophelia's smiled – morphing into a broad, beaming grin – told him that he was doing it right.

"Thank you," she whispered again.

"You're welcome," he replied and for only a moment, tightened his hold on her.

xx

She knew why Harry had reacted the way Harry had. He would come around – eventually. But for him the Muggle World – at that stage – was very, very far away. He had left it all behind the moment he had been allowed to leave the Dursleys for good. She knew and he had never really looked back once. He never went into the Muggle world if he could avoid it – and he and Ginny generally could. Knowing his godson would not be able to live in the World he cherished – the World that had given him a home – was, for him (and she knew he loved her Hugo) a kick in the stomach. Just because – he considered all of them, somehow, family. A large, happy family. That image of his had received the first dent when she and Ron had separated. It had split down – his two best friends were not technically his family any more. Ron – as a brother-in-law, yes. Hermione – not even that any more. She understood. And with Hugo being a Muggle – this already broken up family – would break up even further.

Because Harry knew that Hermione would definitely try to connect the Worlds. That Hermione would try to make life for both her children as good as possible.

And she certainly would. With all her might. Everything she had. She knew she would not her own family to break in two – there would no two sides in her family. There wouldn't be Rosie and her – doing magic – and Hugo and her parents – not doing magic. They were all one family. And they would all stick together.

Hermione had the certified copy safely in her pocket and was unlocking the door. Friday night – the weekend finally. Two days with her babies – and she would make sure that nothing would disturb it – unless the Weasleys got in touch with her – however – she doubted that. She wasn't sure how much. Harry would say. Though – maybe, maybe, he was right now going up to see for himself. She didn't doubt that he was curious. She was not known to be a liar. And he was not known to be incurious about a thing like that. He wanted to know those things.

No – now, she would concentrate on her children – her parents. And then see what was happening over the course of the weekend.

Snape. Snape would be coming over on Sunday. If he didn't change his mind at the last minute (though – she doubted Ophelia would allow him to change his mind. Headstrong girl). She didn't know what had made him do it – what the girl had whispered in her ear but she saw the relationship between those two – and remembered the time when she had been so young and Daddy could fix everything and nowhere on earth was safer than Daddy's embrace. Ophelia always looked exactly like that. A proprietorial air around her when Snape carried her, or just picked her up and snuggling her face into his neck – she remembered that. Such a thing was probably only possible between fathers and daughters – only – she felt for Rose. Maybe she wasn't cut out for it, maybe Ronald wasn't – but she had never seen it there. Not really. Yes, he had held her but she had not been that – possessive of her father. Not as Ophelia probably was.

She was curious. Curious to see how he behaved there. How he acted around her parents – around her children – around her. She smirked a little – it would most certainly not be a dull Sunday lunch.

xx

Of all the days of the week, she loved Saturday the most. Saturdays were those days that she would not ever take a book with her to the apothecary. So many people came in – some who looked strangely at her, some who smiled at her (the huge, hairy man always did – and never said anything besides 'Hello Snape, hello Ophelia'), some who pretended not to see her and some who just stared at her but said nothing and when they noticed that she looked back at them – blushed and turned away. Those were really silly. And sometimes, there were people who only looked at Daddy, and didn't even see her. After those were in, Daddy would usually be a little angry until she hugged him.

Today was a bit different though. Just a bit. Because Daddy and Mary had fought a little. Well, not fought, but had words (as Daddy had said) during breakfast. Mary, apparently, had wanted to go to the apothecary with them – and said something like 'needed normality' and Daddy had said that she better not since he couldn't use a teary woman in the shop. She had glared at him, had put more eggs on his plate – as if it was natural – and had pushed her hands in her sides and had stormed off.

Daddy had groaned and rolled his eyes and had eaten his breakfast and – when they had gone down to the apothecary together (there was no need to open this early since Squiffy Mary Kelly was not squiffy any more), she had been down there already, had glared at Daddy and had said that this was no way to run a successful shop and had disappeared into the back without saying another word.

And Daddy had groaned and had rolled his eyes and had sent Ophelia to see what Mary was doing. But Mary – she had seen right through that, had stomped back into the apothecary, had told Daddy to see what she did for himself and not sent the sweetheart (she liked being called sweetheart now) to spy – and had given Ophelia even a task.

A task that was very important. Mary had dragged a table from somewhere else in the back and a chair and had told Ophelia to sit down.

She had, of course – this was interesting and when Daddy had come in, and had looked for himself, he had only grumbled something and had gone to the front again. And after that, it was fun.

Mary had put papers – sticky papers, sort of, in front of her and a quill. A quill like Daddy had given her to learn how to write a bit, and then had put other papers in front of her – and Ophelia had been allowed to copy what was written on there. Cleanly. And she had done that. In her best handwriting.

And she was still doing it. It was fun. Really. The jars in the back now all got nice, clean, readable labels (Mary had said they were called labels) and she was still writing and Mary was grumbling and muttering because apparently, sometimes, she couldn't read those herself and she had to open the jar, had to guess what could be written on there and once – only once – had to ask Daddy. Those labels, those names Mary wrote out for her before she copied them.

No, really, she liked to do that. All the jars now had her handwriting on it (well, far from all, really – only one and a half of those dark wood shelves yet) and they looked pretty. Because Mary even dusted them and sometimes, ran a wet cloth over them. But she had really no time to look because this word was extraordinarily difficult to write out – there was a letter she didn't know at the beginning, something looking like a sort of triangle without one side. No, she didn't know that letter.

"Mary?" Ophelia asked in a little voice.

"Yes, sweetheart?" she turned and smiled and her eyes were a little – wet.

"I can't read that," she said but – no, that wasn't important now. Mary was crying. "Mary, why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying, sweetheart," she replied but tears were running down her cheeks. But Ophelia knew what crying looked like and she had to console her. She shook her head to herself and jumped from the chair and ran around the table to Mary. She lifted her arms – the way she always did with Daddy when she wanted to be picked up (it never failed!) and even Mary seemed to understand the gesture and, making a weird noise, she reached down and Ophelia found herself immediately smothered in a hug and she knew she would have to hug Mary back.

"Are you very sad, Mary?" she asked after a moment during which she was only held and when she had wrapped her arms around the woman's neck and had put her head on Mary's shoulder.

"Yes, I am," she whispered and even though she held up Ophelia, she stroked her hair at the same time and kissed the side of her head. Ophelia kissed her back. It was necessary when someone was sad.

"Don't be sad, Mary," she whispered in her ear. "I'll make it better and Daddy will help too. We take care of you now."

She felt the woman nod and hug her and cuddle her and heard her cry and Ophelia didn't know what to do except hugging her tightly back and strengthening her hold around her neck.

xx

"Harry doesn't believe me either," Mummy said to grandpa while grandma made the dinner. She had wanted to help but there was something that held her back – something that made Rose remain in the hallway and listen to what the grown ups talked about. She didn't know what it was – maybe it was Mummy's tone, maybe it was the way grandpa had only made a soft cooing noise – or maybe it was that grandma was completely silent.

"Why is that considered so outlandish?" grandpa asked.

"Because Squibs are not – not common, Dad," Mummy said. "And Harry is, I don't know, it's probably because he felt that something like this could never happen to anyone he knows."

"I don't understand the fuss," grandma said suddenly. "Hugo will be fine either way – with or without magic. I really don't understand."

"Neither do I," Mummy sighed. "And it doesn't matter to me that Hugo's a Muggle. Or Squib or whatever. I don't care. He's my son. But I'm afraid Ron won't think so any more."

Rose blinked rapidly. Her brother was not able to do magic? Mh. But that was okay, wasn't it? Even though sometimes Daddy laughed at Muggles because he could just lift his wand and they were confused but grandma and grandpa were Muggles as well, right? And she wasn't allowed to do magic either. Not yet.

It was fine. Equal. She could do magic and he could do the rest of the things. And if another wizard wanted to harm Hugo – she would protect him. And if she had a problem with her teeth, he could fix it for her.

She smiled to herself. This was perfect.

But – it almost sounded as if Hugo didn't know. And she would have to tell him. He should know that he did not have to be afraid not to be allowed to be a dentist, especially after Daddy had said that dentist wasn't a job for a wizard.

Oh – Hugo would be so pleased when he heard that he wouldn't have to be an auror. That he could be a dentist the way he wanted to be.

Rosie grinned and without listening to Mummy and the grandparents again, she rushed upstairs where Hugo was fixing the teeth of her dolls.

_**xx**_


	39. Chapter 39

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

It was – different – to know that there was someone in the back, watching his daughter, keeping her away from the staring customers, keeping her out of harm's way. He didn't doubt for a moment that someone like Lucius Malfoy wouldn't hesitate a moment before hexing his little witch if he wasn't paying attention. Only – Lucius Malfoy would never come in on a busy Saturday. Too many people for his taste.

Still – he had to admit – it was really helpful of her to begin to re-label the staples in the store room. Interfering, yes, but helpful. And to a certain extent, he could understand why she was doing it.

He himself – his first year of teaching – had done everything that Albus had asked of him. Had done more rounds than anyone else, had worked out a completely new syllabus for Potions, had even worked out those spells that every sixth and seventh year should know – his own experience in the months before that had brought him to do it. He had done everything – just out of gratefulness. Granted, he had not done it quite so obviously, ostentatiously as she had done – but nevertheless – he had done the same and he found more and more parallels between himself and Mary Kelly.

She too was very, very grateful and instead of thanking him every waking minute, she did things. She had cooked, she had re-labelled, had taken care of Ophelia, had helped Ophelia learn the letter V (she needed it in his stores), had made dinner together with his little witch and after he had closed the shop, she had even gone down again (when he had brought Ophelia to bed) and had swept the floor of the apothecary, had locked up (he had checked, yes) and had gone to bed herself.

This was – too much. And he would have to tell her. He would have to tell her that it was not necessary. That his cooking wasn't as brilliant as hers was – but better than that of most witches and wizards, that he would pay her a salary – every week, or every fortnight, or every month, whichever way she liked it and that it would be more than Borgin and Burkes had paid her. And that she could still remain living in the coal flat (he hated doing work, even if it was just a little wand waving for the remodelling, for nought) but that cleaning and cooking was not necessary. That she ought to save – for a new wand.

Though, the thoughts were simply made but how to tell her, he didn't know. She was already too close for comfort. And yet – she was – it was – better than he had thought, have someone with him. She had never asked about his past, but had asked that evening whether he was alright, tired, healthy. She was coping with her loss better than he had thought and she almost jumped into the task of caring for Ophelia and all the other things she did for him and for his little witch and for his apothecary. Maybe, maybe he just didn't see how she coped.

He rolled from his left side to the right side – groaning, pulling his duvet tighter around himself. Another almost sleepless night – and lunch with the Grangers the next day and he would be a wreck on Monday.

And what would be happening to Mary Kelly if they left her alone?

xx

She was sure that the grandparents and that Mummy were asleep. She had forced herself to stay awake – had not had the chance to tell Hugo since Mummy had called them down to eat – and afterwards, they had talked and talked and Rose had been afraid, to be honest, that they might overhear her and Hugo talking if they were still up. So all that was left for her to do was to make sure she was awake to tell her brother.

He had to know. And if that cost her a little sleep – so what? When Mummy had checked on them before she went to bed herself, she had pretended to sleep. That was simple. Eyes closed – but not tightly – and she had to make sure she was breathing deeply. It really wasn't difficult.

But waking Hugo was. Very. That stupid brother of hers always slept so deeply and sometimes during the night, he made snoring noises. She was really looking forward to the day when she had her own room again but she wasn't sure when that would be the case. Mummy had said something about an annexe and she had looked it up. She loved that heavy book. Something annexed as an expansion or supplement. An added stipulation or statement. A subsidiary or supplementary building or structure.

So – they planned to put a bit on grandpa's and grandma's house.

And that would be fun. To live with grandma and grandpa. Really fun!

And a room without Hugo. Lovely!

"Hugo," she hissed for the umpteenth time and shook his shoulder. "Hugo, get up!"

"Grml pfh tsh," he said – and she didn't quite understand. But that was just her annoying little brother talking. You wanted to inform him of something interesting, something of such importance that his life would be changed, and he just slept. And grumbled something.

"Hugo," she hissed with more force and jumped on his bed. The little – argh – idiot shrieked and she had to put her hand in front of his mouth. "Be quiet," she whispered and stared into his wide eyes. "Promise or I want take my hand away."

He only nodded and – as she slowly pulled away, he remained silent but panting.

"Listen, Hugo, I have to tell you something," she said and settled comfortably on the foot of his bed and she pulled him in a sitting position as well.

"Rosie, I'm tired," he moaned. "You woke me up."

She rolled her eyes. There she was – trying to tell him the most important news of his life and he was there complaining that she had woken him. The priorities that stupid boy had – really!

"What?" he asked – rubbing his eyes.

"Don't be so flippant," she hissed – and knew that she sounded like her mother. But she didn't care at all.

"Why did you wake me?"

"I have to tell you something. I told you already."

"What did you tell me?"

"That I had to tell you something," she rolled her eyes again.

"What?" he asked.

"That I had to tell you something, I told you."

"What do you have to tell me," he asked – a little loudly and Rosie had to fling herself forward and had to press her hand to his mouth again.

"Be quiet or do you want to wake Mummy?"

"Mhfmhahmph," he answered, muffled by her hand.

"Just keep your voice down," she said bossily and took her hand away again, wiping the spit that he had put on there, on his pyjama top. "And don't do that."

He grimaced, mocking her. "Tell me now?"

She was riled up now. Really. No breaking the news gently as Mummy always put it. No – definitely not. "You can't do magic and I can."

"I can't do magic? But I know that," he shrugged. "That's why you woke me up?"

"You will never do magic."

He shrugged. "So?"

"Can't go to Hogwarts," she explained. "And not work where Mummy's working."

"But I can work where grandma and grandpa are working?" he asked – suddenly his voice was very, very little.

She nodded viciously. "Yes. You can do teeth and I can do magic."

"Wicked!" he grinned. "And Daddy won't tell me all the time that I'll be an auror like he is?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. An auror who can't do magic is pretty stupid."

He still grinned and bent forward and gave Rose a very wet kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for telling me," he lay back and smiled happily to himself, sighed. "I'm happy I can't do magic. Don't want to be an auror. That's stupid. You're never there and when I have children, I want to be there with them and play with them and spend time with them and not be away all weekend," he almost snorted. "Like Daddy is. I'm happy I can't do magic. I will do it like grandma and grandpa. Fix a few teeth and then go home and play with my children."

"And you will marry Ophelia," Rosie chuckled and hopped from Hugo's bed to her own bed and snuggled down in the pillows.

"How do you know I can't do magic, Rosie?"

"Mummy told grandma and grandpa," she replied and yawned. And I heard," she explained, closing her eyes.

"Did you drop eaves?" he asked.

"What?"

"Did you drop eaves?" he repeated.

"No," she groaned. "I eavesdropped. Not dropped eaves. Stupid Hugo," she said sleepily.

"Hmpf," Hugo said and still smiled to himself.

xx

"I'm happy I can't do magic. Don't want to be an auror. That's stupid. You're never there and when I have children, I want to be there with them and play with them and spend time with them and not be away all weekend," he almost snorted. "Like Daddy is. I'm happy I can't do magic. I will do it like grandma and grandpa. Fix a few teeth and then go home and play with my children."

She stopped in her tracks. A shriek of Hugo's and she had been out of bed and on the way to her children. Then this. He knew he wasn't a wizard and he was really happy about it. Truly happy.

How had he found out? Who had told him? Snape? Ophelia? Mum? Dad? Rose? No – Rose didn't know either. And why were they up in the middle of the night discussing this?

"How do you know I can't do magic, Rosie?"

"Mummy told grandma and grandpa."

She exhaled sharply. Rose had heard them talking. Had heard her talking. And she was supposed to be a witch? And didn't even think to cast a spell on the door or the room that the children couldn't hear here? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

But he seemed so accepting. So – really happy about it. He even sounded smiley. It made things simpler – for him – but then again, she had never doubted that he would accept it. And even Rosie seemed fine with it. She didn't taunt him in any way, in fact, her girl sounded merely tired and seemed to move around the room.

She wasn't sure what to do – walk in and let them know that she had heard – or go back to bed, sure that her children were fine?

No – she had to think about it. Couldn't go in – had to let them sleep. Had to think about it first. Not act impulsively. Let it think in that her son knew the truth and wasn't in the least bothered.

Maybe – maybe she would talk to her parents first about it – though – she wasn't really sure about that. She needed a wizard or a witch to ask for the opinion. A wizard who could imagine his child to be a Squib – and who could relate. Someone who was not prejud...

Snape.

Ridiculous. Ridiculous. She couldn't simply drag him outside during lunch and ask him what she should tell her child now that she knew that he knew that he couldn't do magic. That he would never be able to.

Absolutely ridiculous.

She made a little more fun of herself – for having such an idea – and very quietly, walked back to her room, back to bed.

xx

"Alright, Hermione?" Judith Granger asked – just as she was stirring the gravy. The roast was almost done, the table set and, not surprisingly, Mister Snape with his daughter and Hermione's children in the living room, apparently playing – and John in the cellar picking out a bottle of wine. They had been very on time. And both of them looked – so Mugglish – all of a sudden. Well, he was in a suit – a rather old fashioned suit – a stroller if she wasn't mistaken (high collar – waistcoat, tie – everything in black – he looked a little like he was going to a funeral, really) and Ophelia, the cute one – wore a little dark blue dress and buckled shoes, her hair in a French braid.

"No," Hermione said suddenly and looked into the pot. "How long till this is ready?"

Jude shrugged a shoulder. "About ten minutes, I'd say," she replied and smiled. "Why?"

"Nothing," Hermione replied and dashed from the kitchen.

Judith frowned. Hermione was behaving very odd today. Very, very odd. Scatter-brained, confused and she hadn't even smiled at Ophelia or Mister Snape. Nothing. And now she was rushing to the living room and of course she had to follow her daughter. With Hermione and her impulsiveness – who knew what she was about to do. And with her not even smiling at Snape and the cute little girl (oh and Ophelia was very polite – had shaken the hand of every adult before she had darted off to greet Hugo – and, a little reluctantly, Rose).

Judith Granger stood in the door frame and watched. No, she was not throwing them out (and why should she?), instead, she had planted herself in front of Severus Snape – who was sitting a bit stiffly on the couch – and smiled. A genuine smile. Finally.

"Could I have a word with you, please?" her daughter asked softly.

Snape stared for a moment, probably in shock – but after a moment, he nodded. And both of them left the living room together – through the door out onto the terrace.

_**xx**_


	40. Chapter 40

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

"Miss Granger?" he asked – hiding his annoyance – and, well, curiosity – admirably behind a normal, neutral, non-offensive (he hoped) mask and he did not look at her – instead too a long look around the garden. Spring was definitely upon them. Still no leaves on the trees but the grass was a little greener and it smelled – different. There were birds again – singing. And he could strangle them all. What a chipper sound.

"Pr – erm, Mister Snape, it's about my son," she said – and as he looked at her, she was even slightly blushing. Had probably not thought things through again, had been the impulsive Gryffindor she was reputed to be – the impulsive Gryffindor she had been at school. At least she looked the same way – the few lines around her eyes and the extra pound on her hips – no, they didn't change the expression on her face, the body language of the curious, impulsive Gryffindor who actually now thought about wanting to change things, take things back.

"Yes?" he drawled – making her look up.

"He found out he's a Muggle."

"A Muggle?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"Muggle, Squib – it's all just words, isn't it?" she replied fiery, "he won't be able to do magic. Name it as you like."

"And?"

"And he seems so fine with it and don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining but - "

"What is it you want from he?" he asked, slightly testily. He didn't know why he was dragged away from his daughter, watching her play, being dragged away from her and the little Weasley girl who looked just about ready to bombard him with all sorts of questions. He would have, of course, taken care that Ophelia did not feel left out again – but he was curious, he had to admit, to see how many things the Weasley girl wanted to know this time. And now – now he was standing outside listening to Granger blathering on about he didn't know what exactly.

"Advice," she answered after a moment – her voice small and almost childlike. "My ex-husband refuses to believe me, Harr..."

"Miss Granger," he interrupted her, "it seems quite clear to me that neither Mister Weasley nor Mister Potter refuse to believe something out of the ordinary."

"But it isn't so extraordinary," she argued.

He arched his eyebrows. "For two heroes of that War," he said contemptuously, "to produce a non-magical child is extraordinary."

"And why are you accepting it?"

He shook his head disdainfully, "Miss Granger, whatever gives you the idea that I care whether your son has magic or not?"

"Because you let him play with your daughter," she answered swiftly, sharply. "Do you think any of the Weasleys will allow their children to play with my son."

"Yes," he nodded. "I do. Your son is not a leper but you seem to treat him like one."

"I'm not treating him like one. Everyone else is. Or is going to," she glared at him. "Do you know what the Weasleys are like? They look down on Muggles. Ronald looked down at my parents. Arthur always pretends to be so Muggle-friendly but does he know any apart from my parents? No. Did he let his children play with Muggles? No. Did my ex knew what a toaster was? No. A toaster, Mister Snape. Not a bloody laptop or netbook or ipod. A toaster."

"Miss Granger, you still labour under the assumption that I care. I do not. My daugher expressed a wish to play with your son and I will allow my daughter to play with whomever she wants."

She snorted. "He's a Muggle. He will not go to Hogwarts. He will not ever be fully accepted by his godfather, his godmother, his grandparents, his cousins. He won't be able to play Quidditch with his cousins. Ever. Not gobstones. Not Exploding Snap."

He shook his head again. "And why is this any of my business?"

Her shoulder slumped forward and she lifted her head to look at him. "You're right," she sighed, "it isn't. I want to thank you though for letting Ophelia play with Hugo."

He nodded. "And that's it? That's why you dragged me outside? That was the advice I supposed to give you?" he asked – scowling.

Scowling because he was confused. Scowling because this woman wasn't as he had expected it. She was accepting – but afraid what the future would hold for her son. Afraid that her son would not be accepted by most other people she knew. Apart from her parents. Maybe not even accepting by his own father. And this was something – weird.

But something he could – in a way – relate to. Ophelia would never be accepted either. He knew that and so far, he hadn't given it a lot of thought. So far, he had been content with her being there and knowing that she was happy being with him. But Ophelia would be an outcast – with him as a father. And Hugo Weasley would be an outcast because he couldn't do magic. Still – Weasley had the chance of living in the Muggle world, belonging there. Ophelia – Ophelia would have difficulties.

"No," she interrupted his thoughts. "I would very much like to ask you what I should do with the Weasleys. What to tell them, how to do it."

"You know those people better than I do," he said snarkily. "I don't see how I can give you advice on that. You've been a Weasley for long time, haven't you?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Not really. Maybe. A little. For a while. But I don't think I wanted to – I don't know. I never thought about it," she looked away – towards the fence. "I don't want my children pulled apart. And I don't want him growing up without grandparents and without a father."

He sighed. And wasn't sure why he spoke at all. He didn't know. Maybe because he could understand her so well in so deeply wanting to protect her children, maybe because she had sought him out for help and that alone was something he would have to note down in red ink in his calender. He didn't know why he spoke – but he did. "Miss Granger, the question is whether you want your son growing up without a father and grandparents, or whether you want him to grow up knowing that he will never be the equal of his paternal family."

She still looked at something far away in the distance but she nodded. "So you don't think they will just accept it."

"It is not my place to say. But you made it sound this way," he answered steadily. "Now if that was all, I'd like to go back to my daughter."

"No," she turned to him and grabbed his arm. "If I invited the Weasleys here, would you consider joining us?" she asked boldly, and looked in his eyes – deeply. Brown. Lighter than Mary Kelly's. And quite beseeching.

Why? He didn't understand. Why would anyone want to have him around – give him a chance to have the ultimate revenge on the Weasleys for never even pretending to acknowledge what he had done? This – this would be the ultimate revenge. Showing the Weasleys that he, as a Death Eater, former pureblood-fanatic (that was what they saw anyway) spend time with mere Muggles? And them – as a Muggle-loving family did not? Not accepting their own grandchild for what he was? And he did it. Even though he had no reason to and nobody would believe he would ever do it? What a way.

xx

She didn't know what kind of devil had possessed her. She didn't know why she had asked that. Where she had found the courage to ask. True – for the first time in her life – and for the first time in his life – she had talked to him about something non professional (and that had only happened once when she had taught him the spell to protect his girl) and she had got sneering, yes, but honest answers. He had not been overly mean. He had seemed to think about the matter. Had not run away. Though he had probably been close to it. He hadn't and he still looked there and looked at her with his blank expression as she had her hand on his arm. And had just asked him the most idiotic thing. And she didn't even know why.

Oh well – yes, she knew. Of course she knew. Pretending, sort of, that Severus Snape was a family friend and spend time with her family, with a Muggle family and being on her side – would be something horrible for the Weasleys. And an ally for her. He seemed so alright with the fact that Hugo could not do magic. It didn't seem to matter at all. And once more, this man surprised her. Surprised her very much. She had to look into his eyes again and saw something, the glimmer of a feeling before they shut themselves again and became black bottomless pits again. But there had been something. Something – wicked.

"I will contemplate it," he replied evenly. "However - "

"No, please," she took hold of his arm again – somehow she had seemed to let go earlier. "Please don't say however. Just think about it and let me know. Please. And of course, you and Ophelia are always welcome here. We didn't just invite you for this – or I didn't. I just think that our children get along nicely and my parents, especially my father, like you a lot."

And there was – another look in his eyes – not his facial expression, only his eyes. Astonishment. She smiled at him – and nodded towards the house.

"Let's go in before my mother gets angry because her food's getting cold."

He followed her – silently. She didn't know much about him, or much about his life. How he lived, with whom, she only knew that...

"Are you still making those excursions with your daughter?" she asked just as they reached the door that led inside the living room.

"Excursions?"

"Yes, to the Muggle sights," she explained and looked at him, smiling.

"Yes, but if you think I will take your son..."

"I do, actually. I think it would be fun for him," she smirked.

"Don't push it, Miss Granger," he said – his voice having the dangerous edge she had learned to recognise at school.

"Let me know if you change your mind then," she nodded and stepped inside, smiling when she saw all three children playing happily together – building a large house with Lego bricks and she turned to look at Severus Snape again – only to see that his features had somehow softened.

Hermione Granger smiled to herself. This man - the man who almost smiled, the man who looked so lovingly, so sweetly at his daughter, this was a man she wanted to get to know better.

_**xx**_


	41. Chapter 41

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**Dedicated to Isalie964**_

_**xx**_

Mary Kelly's cooking was better. But this was better than Daddy's cooking. So – on a list, Mary Kelly would be on top – Hugo's grandma (who told her that she should call her Judith) second, and Daddy only third. But only, of course, when it came to cooking. Of course when it came to everything else, Daddy was, and would always be on top of any list. Apart from cooking. She liked Daddy's cooking, but this roast was fantastic!

And eating it together with Hugo and Hugo's Mummy and grandparents and Daddy – and even Rosie.

Rosie wasn't so bad, actually. She was just even more curious than she herself. And she had picked out every bit of those bricks they had built with (Hugo explained, interrupted by Rosie, interrupted by Hugo, that those were called Legos) and had observed them closely before she had done anything with it. Hugo and her had just built the sides and were finished a lot sooner than Rosie with the roof. And when she was finally finished, she explained in all detail what she had done and had asked, in all detail, why they had put the windows there or there and why there were three doors (simple – one for each of them). And they had talked about it and how to put the roof on there and Ophelia began to understand.

No, really.

Rosie had asked those questions then because she was so curious and because Daddy was the smartest person in the world. And who else would you ask but the smartest person in the world?

And Daddy only loved her – he had said it only to her. And he hugged only her and Mary Kelly. But he only hugged Mary Kelly because she was sad.

And he didn't even want to touch anyone else – everyone could see it. He just sat there and ate and looked at Hugo's Mummy occasionally and at Ophelia when he wasn't looking at his food or Hugo's Mummy or her, he stared out of the window but only ever briefly and Ophelia knew that nobody but her noticed since they all talked with each other. Daddy even sometimes said something. But not much. And she remained mostly silent as well. She just didn't know what to say to most things.

"And you manage the apothecary all on your own?" she heard – suddenly – and looked up, smiling.

"Yes," Daddy said slowly but her smile faltered and she shook her head.

"No, Daddy," she said and all eyes were on her. She wasn't used to all eyes being on her.

"No?" he asked her.

"No," she said sternly. And they were still all looking at her, "I help and Mary helps."

He looked at her – a little angrily – and she quickly had to look away. Wasn't she allowed to tell that? But it was true, wasn't it? She had written out all those labels and Mary always was down there with them and helped Daddy and fetched things and cleaned up and made sure she knew what to write on those labels. And Daddy couldn't simply say that he did all that alone when they helped.

She looked down at her food for a moment, then looked up again. Daddy was focused on his food, and Hugo's Mummy stared at Daddy strangely. Almost as if she tried to figure something out. And Hugo's grandpa was almost scowling and Hugo's grandma was grinning. She didn't understand grown ups. They were all weird. All but Daddy and Daddy just ate. She shrugged a little and did the same. She had just told the truth after all.

xx

So – Granger was staring at him. The senior Granger looked a little miffed, and his wife grinned. His daughter – smart little thing. Slytherin little thing, even though she wasn't doing it on purpose. Telling everyone that someone like Mary worked for him. Which was – technically true. But who would think that Mary was not his – lady friend – but behaved more and more like a maternal figure. She had even pressed his suit. Had looked him up and down before they had left.

Still – quite strange to see their reaction. Definitely interesting.

Seemed like – for the first time, Granger saw him as a real person – like a male. And that alone made it worth it. Not that he was in any way interested in her – but it made the entire revenge so much sweeter – Granger noticing him as a man – and the Weasleys seeing that. Oh how sweet that would be.

Not that he would ever even consider taking the Hugo Weasley boy with him. Imagine someone saw them. It would publicly mean almost engagement to Granger. And it was one thing to be considered a man in her eyes and quite another to be considered being engaged to that girl. Woman. Whatever.

But other than for Ophelia – and his own pleasure of seeing the Weasleys squirm a little – he was doing nothing for any Grangers. Not in this lifetime, not in the next. He was a Slytherin through and through. His daughter was one – and he had done just about enough for non-deserving people to last him until all eternity.

The rest of that lunch was somewhat quiet and he was glad of it. But maybe the Grangers were just listening to their children talking. Ophelia looked at him for a moment – and seemed to somehow grasp that he wanted to leave.

She yawned.

His little witch – just after desert – just yawned. Giving him the perfect excuse to go.

"I think my daughter needs a nap," he said and got up. The meal had been excellent. But nothing Mary Kelly couldn't cook.

It was a bit awkward – but Ophelia played her role well. She complained a bit about wanting to stay, but eventually – she just let herself be picked up and lay her head against his shoulder.

"Thank you for lunch," he said and held his girl.

"Thank you for coming," Missus Weasley said. "And we hope you'll come again soon."

"We'll see," he said and his daughter on his shoulder – perfect Slytherin – only nodded. She didn't even say anything.

"And please," Granger said, with a strange look in her eyes, "consider what I..."

"I can give you an answer right now, Miss Granger," he said – the vitriol back in his voice, "I will not babysit your son."

She raised his eyebrows but – nodded. "I see."

"And about the other – matter, feel free to owl me," he said arrogantly, nodded, and as Ophelia waved at the children, he left the house.

xx

"Daddy?" Ophelia felt really tired – especially after that awful apparating. She had not slept that well the night before. She had been excited and everything and now – she really did want a nap. Preferably with Daddy on the couch. Hadn't done that often but three or four times and that had been lovely, nice and cosy and amazing.

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked cuddling her.

"I'm tired, Daddy," she yawned. "Can we nap on the couch, please?"

He looked at her from above and seemed a little puzzled. "We could."

"And what about babysitting Hugo?" she asked, yawning again.

"No, Ophelia. Those days when I take you somewhere are you and me only," he explained, taking her shoes off and setting her on her feet, then helping her out of the coat, then, as she was leaning against him, he took his own boots and coat off and picked her up again.

"But then I can probably play with him again, please? And with Rosie?"

He seemed to nod – but said nothing.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked in that gentle mocking tone again.

"But I can see Hugo again?"

"Yes, my little witch, I will not forbid you to see him."

"That's good," she yawned and smiled a little when he carried her to the couch. "I'm glad because I like him."

"Now, what about the nap," he said so gently and sat down, and she snuggled up on his chest. This was the most comfortable place on earth. Really. No matter what. No matter where – she loved laying on her Daddy's chest and loved that he always held her there. She knew she was safe. She also knew that she was probably too old to be sleeping on her Daddy's chest but she had never had the chance when she was younger. She was merely catching up.

And he was right, she thought and her eyes fell shut slowly. She wanted the day alone with her Daddy. Didn't want to share him. Not even with her friend Hugo. It was her Daddy and hers alone.

_**xx**_


	42. Chapter 42

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He took a deep breath – the parchments neatly folded in a pocket, Ginny by his side, little James, Al and Lily having already spotted their cousins Roxanne, Lucy, Molly and Fred, ran off towards the lawn.

"Why are you so nervous, Harry?" Ginny asked curiously, squeezing his hand and looking at him inquisitively.

"I'm not nervous," he replied and frowned when he saw the grimace she pulled.

"Your hands are sweaty," she replied coldly. "Will you tell me what's been bothering you the last three days or will you tell my mother first?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. But I really should tell your parents and your brother. Ron is here, isn't he?"

"He's always on Monday night, Harry, you know that. We all are. Monday night is Weasley night," she sighed. "Only Bill and Fleur are not here but I told you that. Fleur didn't want to come alone and Bill is in Egypt at the moment."

He nodded dumbly.

"Harry, stop this moping! I've been asking you so often now and all you said was 'hmpf'. Why don't you tell me?"

"I will tell you," he replied testily. "But can't you understand that I only want to tell it once?"

"No, I can't, frankly," she huffed and pulled her hand away. "You've been impossible."

"Ginny, I..."

She shook her head and pushed the door open. The old house tweaked a little and let them in. Harry glanced, quickly back at his children but they were already playing with the garden gnomes and chasing them around. They'd be safe there with their cousins. And what would be talked about inside was not for their ears in any case.

Truth be told – he didn't know how to handle those news himself. Of course he had gone up to the Registration Office, had checked both Ron's and Hermione's files and had made copies. And to be on the safe side – he had checked his file and even Ginny's file. But his children were normal. Quite the relief. But then again, all three of them had shown some accidental magic already. So that was fine. But his godson was a Squib. He had never, never even considered the possibility. Had considered a lot of things – had even gone so far as to imagine what would happen if one of his had some kind of disability (too many dark curses on him and on Ginny) but nit able to do magic? It had never occurred to him.

He didn't know how to handle this. But he knew that Ronald had the right to know for sure and so did the rest of his family. And his own family. Of course he had thought about it whether he should let Hermione tell them – but – he had decided against it. Not because he thought she shouldn't – but because he wanted to take the blow from her. He did not doubt for a moment that they would rant and be shocked. Just as he was. Only maybe a little worse.

He knew the Muggle world at least a little. Neither of them did. And Hermione would not allow her son to be educated away. Away from her, at least. Hermione knew that there were almost no possibilities for Squibs in the Wizarding World – why should she destroy ever chance the boy had?

No – she wouldn't allow it and neither would she allow to let her children be separated. She would have to split it. Had to teach Rose all about witches and wizards and Hugo all about Muggles. Had to live her live in two worlds. And he felt with her. It would be difficult. Very, very difficult. And to be honest, Hugo couldn't do much with his cousins. And where they lived. He would be an outcast in their world.

And – yes – he was still a bit shocked but it was Hermione and it was Hugo. She had been right. He was just the same child. Probably. He wasn't sure. He would have to think about it longer. But inform the family first.

Even if Hermione was angry at him afterwards for telling them. He was protecting her from Molly's wrath and shock and confusion.

"Harry!" Molly came towards him as he still stood a bit lost in the door. Ginny had – apparently, already walked fully inside.

"Hullo Molly," he smiled weakly and as she did every Monday, she hugged him in greeting. He owed this family. His family. The people who had taken him in as a son.

Odd – that – Hermione had been accepted. But had never received the same warmth he had. Warmth, yes, but not the same kind he did. She was the daughter-in-law. And he had been – still was – another son. Difference. And no, probably he wouldn't endear her too much to them now. But – he had to. He just had to.

"Can we go in? I need to talk to all of you," he said softly.

"Did something happen, Harry?" Molly asked, concern written all over his face.

"Maybe," he replied cryptically and shrugged one shoulder.

"What...," she asked but he had pulled her into the kitchen. Almost everyone was there – Arthur, Charlie (a strange man sitting next to him...), Percy with his wife Audrey, George and Angelina, and Ginny, glaring at him. Only Ron was missing.

"Where's Ron?"

"Hey Harry," the person in question walked in – completely content, it seemed, with his new girlfriend on his side, and a handful of pumpkin flavoured crisps in his wandering from his hand to his mouth.

"Hi," she said nicely.

He had not expected her – had not expected her at all. Still...

"Ron, did you talk to Hermione again?" he asked.

He shook his head. "I was busy and actually wanted to take them on Sunday but Henrietta and me forgot about the time and..."

Harry shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You don't believe her, do you?"

"About...you know what? No, of course not. Don't be daft. It's just tactics on her end," Ron chuckled. "Wants to stay with her parents, Rosie even said they plan to build an annexe or something. She can't be serious. She just doesn't want me to have the children live with me, that's all."

"The children living with you?" Henrietta said at the same time that Molly gasped, Arthur cleared his throat and Charlie shook his head.

"Ron, stop," Harry tried to say but they all spoke at the same time. He heard only a bit – Henrietta obviously had not known that Ron wanted them to live with them and Ron arguing slightly with her about it, Molly thought it was a bad idea because children belonged to the mother and loudly expressed her opinion, Charlie explained to the man (lover? boyfriend?) that Hermione was Ron's ex-wife and that this was about the two children, Rose and Hugo, Ginny shrieked at Ron and at him for not telling her before, George and Angelina talked amongst themselves about children living with mothers or fathers, and only Percy, his wife and Arthur remained quiet. The latter got up and moved to stand next to him.

"What doesn't my son believe Hermione?" he asked gently.

Harry swallowed and pulled the two parchments from his pockets and, without saying another word, handed them to his father-in-law.

"Oh no," he said quietly. "Is this from the Registration Office?"

Harry nodded and felt Percy standing behind his father, reading over his shoulder. "Oh dear," he gasped. "Is this real?"

He nodded slowly.

"Merlin," Audrey shrieked loudly and – in a matter of moments, everyone in the room had fallen silent. Arthur wore a grave expression. Solemn. Not angry. Just – grave and serious. Not as if someone had died – but as if he had heard bad news and naturally, the entire family looked at Arthur and him and Percy and Audrey.

xx

She had found both of them, sleeping happily together on the couch, Ophelia snuggled onto his chest, his arms around her, his mouth open and he was snoring slightly, Ophelia drooling on the formidable man's shirt. She could see clearly that everyone who didn't know him very well could never imagine him napping with his girl. And to be honest, the person she had gotten to know over the years, every morning, was different than this. He had always been so cold – and now – nothing of that coldness was left. Not here, not with the little sweetheart and not with herself.

She had to admit that during the nights it was bad – horrible. And the worst in those nights was that she knew she never had a chance to run away into some form of – anything, really. She faced it every night almost. But it was alright, really. She knew she had to and come morning, things got simpler. Every single morning, around 6, or 6:30, depending on how she had slept, she would make her way from her coal flat up to the house, up to their flat and began making breakfast. Porridge and eggs and bacon, beans, toast, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, and lately, Ophelia had begun to like marmalade. So she prepared little marmalade-toast-soldiers for her. She usually had a cup of tea with them, ate a little – sometimes, made sure Ophelia got dressed and either went down to the apothecary with them or made sure everything was done upstairs – or probably prepared lunch or anything. She was useful and Severus let her be. He understood how important it was for her to keep busy. He never said anything about her reorganising his storeroom.

No – truth be told, she felt very comfortable almost living with them, she had someone to care of, Ophelia, and despite everything that he said and probably thought himself, Severus. Both of them had been too self-reliant for too long.

Severus, yes, he was a grown man, ten, fifteen years younger than herself, and he was supposed to to look after himself, but it was strange, really. At meals, the day before yesterday, for instance, she had put all the pots and pans (lamb chops today) on the table and he had put a lot of broccoli on Ophelia's plate, and had given her the nicest bit of lamb chop. Then he had waited until she herself at taken some and only then he had served himself. A little meat, a little potatoes, and almost not broccoli. No, he wasn't taking care of himself. Not the way he should. And she was adamant on making him live more healthy – and he should really get out, get some more sun, some more fresh air.

Maybe – with a little time and a little convincing, she could make him let her run the apothecary for a day or so. Take more than a day off every week. Well – time would tell.

But Ophelia, that was even worse. The girl dressed herself, the girl bathed herself, mostly, then girl did most of the things herself. Yes, yes, Severus helped her but it seemed deeply ingrained not to be used to help. She had observed this when Severus had helped her the day before, getting ready to go to this family they were invited to. He had stood there in her room and had wanted to help but he was a little unsure and she was just doing it herself. Got dressed, combed her hair, put her shoes on. But Mary had grabbed her – and had braided her hair and Ophelia had been all smiles and stood very long in front of the mirror, admiring herself.

No, Ophelia was too self-sufficient for her age and – when all was said and done – her history was a little mysterious too. Severus had only said that her mother had died and while she had grown up there, after her death, he took care of her.

Only – she had the suspicion, by how close they were, how much they so obviously loved each other, that the love of her father was the first real parental love she had experienced. But Mary wasn't sure of course.

Still – she had decided to do a little, discreet digging.

And now was just the right moment. Severus was still down in the apothecary, closing up and she had taken Ophelia upstairs to do the cooking. The little one was very, very sweet and very interested in everything. She loved chopping things (because, as she said, Daddy let her chop ingredients for potions) and she loved watching how meals were cooked.

"Sweetheart, could you bring me the big pan from over there?" she asked gently and Ophelia smiled and rushed over, bringing her the heavy pan.

"There, Mary," she beamed.

"Thank you," she smiled back and put it on the cooker. "Did you ever cook with Mummy?"

Ophelia shook her head. "No, Mummy never cooked. Madame Sylvie sometimes made scrambled eggs but only Daddy really cooked and showed me a little."

"He did a good job. You're a very good little cooking assistant," she helped Ophelia on the stool so she could see what was happening. "But who's Madame Sylvie?"

Ophelia sighed. "She was the woman who looked after me when Mummy worked and when Mummy didn't have time."

"Did Mummy work a lot?" she asked and when Ophelia nodded simply but didn't look at her, kept her eyes on the sausages in the pan, sizzling.

She nodded. "She always did."

"Do you know where she worked, sweetheart?" she asked, leaning over her and flipping the bangers.

"At home or where Madame Sylvie lived," Ophelia replied in a little voice. "Or sometimes she went somewhere but I don't know where."

Mary Kelly groaned inwardly. This child was sometimes too literal-minded. Or maybe she was just avoiding the question. Or didn't know. "And what kind of job did she do? Do you know?"

Ophelia shook her head. "But she was always very colourful."

"What does that mean, sweetheart?"

"She had so many colours in her face and she wore very short skirts," Ophelia shrugged.

"Did she use a lot of make-up?" she asked and a rather strange idea blossomed in her head. Ophelia's mother – a -

No.

Severus resorting to get a child from a -

No.

"Yes, Missus Kelly," she suddenly heard him. "Exactly what you think."

She turned around rapidly, her eyes open and her mouth open. "But – why should you resort to that sort of thing? And how...?"

"Why?" he asked, and he kept his anger – his obvious anger at her well in check. Oh – she had destroyed it. Stupid her for asking too many questions.

xx

For a moment, there was absolute silence. There had never been, as far as she could remember, absolute silence in the Burrow. And she had lived there as long as she and Arthur had been married. Forever. And there had never been that kind of eerie silence. Not even when you-know-who had been at large.

And this – those two parchments had silenced the entire family – plus spouses, girlfriend and new boyfriend. And herself.

Hugo Weasley. _Squib_.

That was all she could see.

She bit her lip. This could not be happening. Her Hugo not being able to...no. No. Hugo was supposed to be a brilliant wizard. Hugo was supposed to go to Hogwarts, get into Gryffindor like the rest of the Weasleys, be a prefect, maybe, because he was such a good little boy, play Quidditch. Just be a wizard for the sake of Merlin.

Poor Hugo. Poor, little Hugo.

"It's...I ca...I have to," she muttered and, without even thinking about it, without looking at someone, she knew what they looked like in shock, she stormed out of the Burrow – ran, just ran.

Poor Hugo. She had to make sure he was alright. Had to make sure that he was okay. That he felt – felt – she wasn't sure. But she had to go there. Had to. Poor Hugo. Had to console him.

Had to comfort him.

She knew when she could apparate. And she did. The garden. She didn't remember it well, but well enough. And she needed to see Hugo. Definitely.

A pop and she was there. She exhaled sharply. Hugo.

Hugo playing with Rosie in the garden. Just a few feet of where she had landed. They both looked up and Judith and Jonathan sat there, watching them and Hermione was there and watched too – and all were suddenly looking at her but she barely noticed – she dashed forward and within a second, Hugo was enveloped in her arms.

"My poor boy," she whispered and felt the tears stinging in her eyes. "My poor, poor boy."

_**xx**_


	43. Chapter 43

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

_**Thank you, Alabaster Princess, for helping me, distracting me, and letting me use (okay, I didn't really ask permission, so – sorry!) something you wrote! Thanks!**_

_**xx**_

It was, after all was said and done, a glaring match. A staring competition between him and her. It was several moments until one of Ophelia's harrumphs made both of them looking in her direction at the same time.

"The bangers are burning," she said in a little voice – and had obviously picked up on the tension between Severus and Mary.

"Oh blo...," she said in a deeper voice than usual and pulled the pan from the cooker.

"Ophelia, please go into your room for a moment," Severus said – he needed her out of the room. Needed to talk to Mary Kelly.

Idiot woman had to dig, hadn't she? Had to ask his daughter questions, had to find out. And asking why he had done it? Ridiculous.

He was, despite what everyone thought, a man. A man who had needs – albeit his ability to suppress them to a certain degree. And Trixie had been – convenient. He had been used to her – or had used her and had paid her well. She had been healthy (a quick Petrificus and a diagnostic spell had confirmed that), and she had been okay in her profession. Of course he hadn't suspected she would use him – or parts of him. And he had been angry. He had raged, he had destroyed half of his living room – but if he had known that he had created something so perfect, something so lovely as Ophelia – he wouldn't have been that angry. He would have stormed in there, had taken the newborn from her and had raised her on his own right from the start. And not leave her to lead a miserable existence, lacking love, lacking basic comforts.

He had pushed the guilt he had felt, he still felt sometimes, when his little witch talked about her life with her mother, to the back of his head and Mary Kelly dragged it right in front.

He returned his glare to her – but hers, her eyes, had softened.

"I didn't mean to put it that way, Severus," she said gently, "I just thought that you'd be nice and good-looking enough to find a wife. Not pay for – what you needed."

He was – dumbstruck. Again. She seemed to have that in her.

"Sit," she said with authority and gestured on the chair he usually took when they were eating as she took her chair. "Severus, I'm sorry," she said gently and took his hand. "I didn't mean to imply anything. I'm just surprised because I thought Ophelia's mother was, had been, your girlfriend or an affair."

"And why," he found his voice again, "does it seem to absurd to you that I have needs, Missus Kelly?"

She shook her head, rubbing her eyebrow. "It doesn't. I've been married for over 25 years, I know about male needs. But as I said, it only surprised me."

He made a sound that almost sounded like a snort. "Do you know who I am?"

"Severus Snape, loving father who always reads to his daughter, always checks on her twice before he goes to bed himself, protects her, kind person who developed a potion just for me, horrible cook, avid reader, handsome man who scowls at every customer he's ever had. Brilliant potioneer with a messy storeroom. That's what you are, that's who you are."

"I was a spy. I killed..."

"Even I in my stupor I heard of that," she interrupted him. "But that was 15 years ago," she added, throwing her hands in the air. "Do you think that some of the women who don't exactly knowing what they want when they come in, come in because of your sparkling personality or the casy interior? They come in because they need something to look at. And that's you."

"Rubbish," he replied outraged and got up.

"Rubbish? No, Severus. Not rubbish. Women like bad guys. They don't want nicely coiffed men who always say 'yes, dear' and 'of course, dear' and 'as you like, dear' and pluck their eyebrows and shave their legs. At least not most women. Some, yes, but they don't come into your shop anyway. You need to get a perspective and a bit more sun and more vegetables," she said sternly.

"You're insane and I should have never..."

"Don't you dare finishing that sentence!" she exclaimed, and she was by his side, his hands on his chest in a heartbeat, "you saved my life, Severus Snape. Maybe it I wouldn't have died today or tomorrow, but sooner or later, I would have been lying in a ditch, dead. You saved me from this and don't you dare telling me you shouldn't have taken me in. Don't you dare, Severus."

Her eyes were brimming with tears and her hands slid down his chest. She obviously had to swallow hard around the lump in her throat. She looked – hurt by what he had said.

"Don't you dare," she repeated and her voice was choked by emotion.

What exactly had happened to him in the past years, months – he didn't know. But the woman, standing close to him, her arms by her sides now, her lip between her teeth, it – touched him. Touched him seeing her fighting for her countenance.

"Sit," he said suddenly. "Ophelia's mother knew what she was doing when she conceived her," he began slowly, knowing he would have to give her a little something. He wanted to give her a little something. Wanted that woman to stay there. Ophelia loved her. And he could stand her presence. She was a big help. And she deserved to get something in return.

"She wanted a child, apparently. And had me and another – well – as potential fathers. And I got lucky. Paid for Ophelia since she had Muggle testing that proved I was her father. Until she died."

Mary nodded and she wiped her hand over her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered in a strangled-sounding voice. "Thank you for telling me."

He only nodded sharply and wasn't sure what had possessed him to do it.

xx

"Molly!" Hermione was by her son's side in a heartbeat and glared at the woman. "What are you doing here?"

"Poor boy," she cuddled Hugo further for a moment before she looked at Hermione. "Harry told us."

"Harry told you? What?," she asked – then – of course, "Oh. And why are you acting as if he's dying?"

"Hermione," John was next to her and touched her lower back gently. "Hello Molly."

"Why do you take it so calmly?" Molly shrieked.

"Why shouldn't I take it calmly?" Hermione asked – her voice getting higher as well.

"Hermione!" her mother was by her side now as well and held her arm. "Molly, maybe we should discuss this without the children present? Hermione?"

"What?" she spun around.

"Hermione take the children inside, please," Jonathan said – a stern look on his face that she had not seen in years. Two decades. Or so.

"But...," she tried to protest but her mother looked at her in the same stern way.

"Please?" she said in a low tone that Hermione recognised from when she had been a mere girl. It rather meant 'do it, or else'. She raised her eyebrows but she knew that her parents were right. Neither Hugo nor Rosie should listen to this.

"Why are you sad, grandma?" Hugo suddenly asked and wriggled out of her arms.

"Because," Molly knelt on the ground to look him in the eyes, "you can't do magic. Because you're a...you're a Squib."

Hugo began to grin. First it was only a slight twitching of the corners of his mouth, then it grew and grew and grew until it was a huge, beaming, toothy grin. "But Grandma Molly, that's no reason to be sad. I can be a dentist," he replied happily. "And I don't want to go to Hogwarts. Daddy said there is a Chamber and a large snake and a three-headed dog. Ophelia has a three-headed dog as a pet but Daddy said there is a real one. I don't like three-headed dogs."

Hermione couldn't hide her grin. She knew Hugo on a roll. Hugo would go on. And he wouldn't stop until someone took him away. And she had decided that she would wait a moment more – despite Rose already standing in front of her.

"And Daddy said that I have to be in Gryffindor and that only Gryffindor was a good house because all the Weasleys were in it and I don't like red and gold. I like blue and green and purple and I don't want to be a Gryffindor. And then there's Care of Magical Creatures and people get injured there and the carriages are pulled by things that you can only see when you've seen death and I don't know what that is and if I've seen it or not and I don't want to go there. I want to be a dentist like Grandma and Grandpa. I don't want to be an auror. And Daddy thinks I should be an auror. I can't do this because I can't do magic," he shrugged but still grinned at his paternal grandmother. "I want to go to school here and learn all about teeth!" he shouted the last bit.

Molly seemed shocked – and sat back on her heels.

"Hugo, come on," she interrupted and picked him up, holding him in her arms, "You can fix Teddy's teeth, okay?"

"Will I see Grandma Molly later?" Hugo asked as Hermione carried him away – Rose following them after waving at her grandmother.

"I don't know, sweetie," she replied and knew that she would get outside as soon as possible again.

xx

Ophelia was very careful. She usually never got send to her room but this seemed very earnest. Daddy and Mary had never really glared like this at one another. Not this evilly and she really wanted to keep both Daddy and Mary. Together. She liked Mary. She was a good almost-Grandma and she was always good for a cuddle, just like Daddy but they were different and she liked both varieties. No, they were not allowed to fight.

Mary had to stay and she knew Daddy. Daddy had a temper. And Daddy sometimes did things that he didn't really want to do – she knew that too. She had to make Mary stay and so she carefully peeked into the kitchen where they sat, together, at the table and it didn't look like they were fighting. Mary was crying. And Daddy had his hand on her arm and she thought she saw him moving his fingers only a little – they way he did when she was sad and had to be consoled and she knew that this almost always worked.

But Mary was crying! Why was she crying?

Ophelia was torn – going in and consoling her and giving away that she had not stayed in her room or not going in and not consoling her?

"You can come in, Ophelia," Daddy said a moment later while she still pondered. And wondered why Daddy always knew she was somewhere. She usually walked so quietly – and especially now that she only wore her tights and socks over them to keep her feet warm and that didn't make any noise. But Daddy always knew. Somehow.

"Mary, why are you crying?" she asked concernedly and skidded in her socks to Mary's side and scrambled, with difficulty, on her lap and flung her arms around her neck. Immediately, Mary's arms tightened around her as well and she couldn't see anything but Mary's dress any more.

"It's okay, Mary," she whispered into that. "You don't have to cry. Daddy and I will take care of you."

"You already have, sweetheart," she replied and Ophelia felt her nose pushed into her hair. "You still do. Wouldn't know what I'd do without you and your Daddy."

Ophelia smiled and shifted a little sideways to look at Daddy – and he looked at both of them – almost tenderly. She winked, or tried to wink, and had to scrunch up half of her face in order to do it (it was hard!) but Daddy understood and winked back (without scrunching up his face – how did he do that?) and she knew that Mary was safe here and that they would continue to take care of her – she could lean back calmly.

xx

He strongly disliked hysterical women. He had known some girls, women, during his time at school and Uni. Some patients. And hysterical women were the most annoying things in the world. He had been lucky with both Jude and Hermione – both of them were only mildly hysterical. And only when the occasion called for it.

This however, this woman standing there, was hysterical. And why? Because her grandson could not do magic. What a silly, hysterical woman. Really. Just because Hugo was happy not doing it.

"Did you plant that in his head?" she had shrieked and had glared at both of them. He had remained silent – and had put his hand on Jude's back – and she was quiet now as well. He would try to reason but to reason with hysterical women – might as well wrestle with a lion. Or a rhinoceros. Or try to reach the North Pole barefoot and in boxers. Or – well – enough.

He would still try.

"Molly, please calm down," he said gently and took a step towards her. "Hugo is four years old. He doesn't understand all of it now. And to burden him now, to tell him that it is oh-so-sad that he can't do magic will seriously damage him."

"Bu..but..."

"No, Molly, I mean it. I know you think we have to discuss this – and maybe we do – but you're beside yourself because you're shocked and in no state to calmly talk about it. Besides, I honestly think that Arthur and Ron and Hermione should be here too."

She seemed startled – very startled but after a moment, nodded. "Yes," she said voicelessly. "I will owl."

John nodded and from the corner of his eye, he saw his wife smile gently and nod – and Molly apparated away – just as sudden as she had come.

"Thank you, John," Jude said softly and he turned and hugged her.

"She's right though," he replied, softly in her ear, "Poor Hugo for having a family that will think he's disabled just because he can't do magic."

She chuckled and lay her head against his chest. "Just make sure Hermione owls Snape before the Weasleys come here."

He chuckled as well and pressed a kiss on top of her head. "I will. He has to be there and scare them a little."

_**xx**_


	44. Chapter 44

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He wanted to bang the parchment on the table but since Ophelia and Mary Kelly were currently feeding the bloody tortoise at the table (a tortoise on the table? The things he allowed his daughter) and he did not want to scare both the pet and the two females sitting there. Oh but he felt like it. The cheek of the bloody woman.

Please come and support me and my family.

What was she thinking? Please come and support me and my family. The utter cheek of her. The utter, utter outrageousness of this statement, this note, this – letter. The Weasleys know about my son and Molly did not take it well. She will return with my ex-husband and Arthur Weasley, apparently today. Please come and support me and my family.

He did not owe her anything. Not her, not her family. The only people he owed were Ophelia and to a certain extent Mary Kelly (though she would say – you owe yourself, Severus) definitely not Hermione Granger and her brats.

But – this was probably beside the point. This was maybe what Mary meant when she said that he owed himself. He owed himself the pleasure of seeing the Weasleys flustered and they would – indubitably – upon seeing him again. He had not even caught a glimpse of a single member of that family (except Ronald) since before the end of the war. But he had heard stories, naturally. Hagrid informed him in his casual way, and occasionally, two of those people who were not really supposed to be in his apothecary, had met there (and yes, he had enjoyed the first embarrassment), and after a while, had begun to talk. The Weasleys and their ever-growing brood had been a topic, of course. In those moments he was even more content that he would never be forced to teach at Hogwarts again – and teach at least 11 (could be 12, could be 20, for all he cared) of those red headed dunderheads. It was enough that Ophelia had thought be befriend one of them.

Even though – truth be told – he did not really see him as a Weasley. More a Granger. Though he always called him the Hugo Weasley boy. And despite the red hair. Really, more like Granger.

So – no, he would not be helping Hermione Granger and her brats. He would make Weasleys squirm and once more, he had the chance of doing a little Gryffindor-scaring.

He was sure about one thing though – he was there for himself, not for Granger – and as such, he knew that she would expect him to bring his girl. No, he would definitely not take Ophelia to the Grangers. He was there for his own, well, pleasure, not running to her aid and as such, he would make sure Ophelia was never, under any circumstances, in the line of fire of stupid, impulsive Gryffindors.

He checked his pocket watch – and decided. No big entrance this time. He would be there and wait for the Weasleys. Calm and smirking.

No, really, this thought alone brought a smirk on his face and he made his decision. With a wave of his wand, he summoned his robes.

"Mary, could you watch Ophelia for an hour, please? I have some business to do and I can't take her with me."

She nodded but Ophelia stared at him. "Where are you going, Daddy?"

"I'll be back in an hour," he explained and saw the almost fear, almost panic in her eyes. And yes, he had never left her alone. Had either taken her with him or had not gone anywhere. But he would not take her with him this time and he – well – sort of trusted Mary Kelly to take care of Ophelia for such a short time. He wouldn't be away for long. An hour – at the most.

"But where are you going?" she asked, her lower lip trembling a little – but only a little until Mary wrapped an arm around her, pulled her to her and whispered something in her ear. She still looked earnestly at him. Very, very earnestly and he knew that she was only a little scared of him leaving her. With quick steps, he was around the table and picked her up, lifting her into his embrace. "I'll be back in an hour, my little witch, I promise," he spoke softly in her ear. "And tomorrow, we'll go somewhere, just you and me, okay?"

She nodded a little sadly and for a moment, snuggled her head into the crook of his neck. "Do you really promise?"

He nodded and gently kissed her forehead. He had not thought she would take it so hard if he left for an hour. She was with Mary for longer than that in the store room when he was working in front. He did not even dare to glimpse at the tortoise. No, he could see it in her eyes. "I promise," he repeated and kissed her again before ever-thoughtful Mary took the girl from his arms.

"And we will bake a cake, hm?" she asked softly and Severus nodded in thanks.

xx

She wasn't honestly nervous. She was – a bit excited but not in a good way. She knew she had her parents on her side and she had (Ron would hate her for this, she knew) sent Rose and Hugo to Missus Williams, the neighbour, who had already babysat her when she had been little. They would, doubtlessly, come back with a lot of chocolate ice cream around their mouths but it would be worth it. She didn't want them in the house when there was the possibility of a fight. And she guessed that there was more than the possibility of a fight.

Her mother had even prepared some sandwiches and tea would be ready when they came. Only – she had written Severus Snape and she wasn't sure he would come. And if he did – oh, she hoped he wasn't bringing his daughter. She had not mentioned the girl in her note. Had only asked him. Oh, that would be difficult if Ophelia came with him. She would have to send the girl to Missus Williams as well and she doubted that Severus Snape would like that.

"Oh dear," she muttered to herself when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," her mother shouted from the living room and Hermione heard her opening the door but did not hear what she said, or how was there. From the silence – could she hope that he had come? Despite sending no answer?

She swallowed hard. It would make it simpler – and more difficult at the same time when Snape was there. Every single one of the Weasleys would be on his throat first – and at this moment, she wasn't sure any more what she had wanted to achieve by inviting him. It had been an impulse – first her asking him, and then asking again. She wanted to have that gentle man in her house, the one that loved his daughter – but how big were the chances of seeing him when the Weasleys were there?

She let her head fall back and groaned.

"They're not even here yet, Miss Granger," she heard his voice suddenly and her head snapped back, "and you're already groaning about it?"

"Mister Snape, I was just...erm," she tried to answer – but then decided against it and got up and stretched out her hand – towards him. And he – Severus Snape – he surprised her.

He took it. Just took it, squeezed it, shook it. And it was one of those handshakes that she preferred. With force behind it – not feeling as if she was shaking a dead fish. No, this was a nice, firm, warm handshake.

Odd – she had always taken him as someone who had cold hands constantly. No, not at all. Warm and dry and he didn't even scowl. It was just a neutral, normal expression on his face. Nothing out of the ordinary. Only – his eyes were almost warm now. Almost the way he had looked at his daughter. But only almost.

"I can only stay for an hour," he explained. "My daughter expects me back."

"Oh, you didn't bring her. Thank God," she sighed.

"Why would I want to bring my daughter into a house that soon will be full of dim-witted, impulsive, quick with their wand, Gryffindors?"

"I'm used to be one," she smirked. "Remember?"

"How could I forget?" he sneered.

"I'll get it," her father cried this time – after the doorbell had wrung.

"I have no idea why I asked you to come here," she blurted. "I'm sorry I dragged you in..."

"Bit late for that now," he replied evenly. "However, I know why I am here."

"And why's...," she was interrupted by her father – and her mother – accompanied by three Weasleys.

xx

It was nice to see their first reaction. Ronald Weasley's mouth hung open and he turned a nice shade of pink, Molly Weasley seemed to want to say something but the words seemed lodged in her throat and she was merely moving her mouth and Arthur, Arthur merely stared at him in wonder and astonishment. Just curious as to what he was doing there.

"Good afternoon," he said and used his most _pleasant_ voice. The one he had always used back at Hogwarts. The one Ophelia was afraid of.

None of the three knew what to say, apparently.

"Tea?" Judith Granger came to their rescue (not that he wanted her to) and with her husband stepped into the overly crowded kitchen. "And why don't you all go into the living room, John? I'll finish the tea."

"Good idea, Jude," her husband answered and more or less ushered the Weasleys out – and he and Hermione stayed back for a moment.

"It seems you're making an impression, Mister Snape," Judith Granger ginned and winked at him. "Hermione, will you bring the sandwiches in?"

She nodded and smiled at him. "Thanks for being here," she beamed at him and he could merely growl back. He had not done anything except greeted them. It would not help in the least – not with her problem.

"Mister Snape?" Miss Granger held him back by holding his sleeve.

"Yes?"

"I know I wasn't right in coming to you unannounced to give your daughter the book and I haven't apologised so far," she said gently and he could only nod. Was the entire family going insane now? Just because he had a daughter now? Just because he had allowed his daughter to play with Hermione Granger's son?

Granger smiled at him sweetly, had shaken his hand, warm and soft and small and she had the glimmer in her eye that meant, as far as he could remember, fight. Not against him but against something. Oh yes, he remembered her SPEW buttons. Well. And he remembered how Minerva McGonagall had chuckled about it and had called her a feisty little thing. And during that time, her eyes had gleamed just the same. Weird.

And now Granger woman senior had apologised for interfering. That was something new. And had thanked him. For being there.

Honestly – this confused him. Both Granger women confused him. Didn't they understand that he was only there for his own, twisted pleasure? They honestly thought he was there to help them? With what?

The Weasleys would rant for a while – and complain a little – and Ronald Weasley would never in his life want a Squib son to live with him, Hermione Granger had divorced him, the children would see their paternal grandparents occasionally, and that was all there was.

"Hermione's also very happy you're here," she suddenly said.

"Oh is she?" he replied, mockingly and arched an eyebrow, hearing Molly shriek from the living room.

"Yes," she smiled. "There now. Tea's ready. Would you mind?" she asked – and before he knew it – he found himself carrying a tray with a few cups and saucers and tea. He never even considered using magic either.

_**xx**_


	45. Chapter 45

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

Yes. Yes, she had truly thought that there was nothing that surprise her more than seeing Severus Snape cuddling his daughter. Not true. A close second – but Severus Snape – the essential wizard – carrying a tea tray into their living room – that was the most surprising thing she had ever seen in the world. Forget everything she had ever seen in the Wizarding World – three-headed dogs, dead Basilisks, house elves, giant spiders, people transfiguring themselves into animals – Severus Snape carrying a tea tray with a solemn, concentrated expression on his face was something she had never expected to see. Nothing, after this, would surprise her any more.

Nothing.

Well, maybe. But that was then only him setting down the tea tray carefully and taking a seat (and she had seen her father's gesture for him to sit but still...). It had silenced even Molly's shrieking and Ron's huffish, peeved mutterings and Arthur still seemed a little – confused about the entire thing.

It only took them both, Molly and Ronald a moment to gather their wits. Only a second or two until Ronald's ears grew redder and Molly seemed to – well – there seemed to be an internal explosion – or implosion and her eyes grew wider and her hair even redder (was that possible?) before she stood up and her wand was drawn on Severus Snape.

"What are you doing here?" she shrieked – in a high-pitched tone.

"Severus Snape," her father said in a very clear, very calm voice, not once taking his eyes off the Weasleys, "is a friend of our family and I would ask you to put the wand away."

"But...but...", Molly spun around – glaring at her father. "He's a Death Eater. He killed Dumbledore."

"He's a friend of our family," her mother answered sweetly, "and we do not want to explain to the neighbours why there is a hexed person around here somewhere. I'm sure it would be against this secrecy-thing as well."

Hermione wanted to begin to speak. Wanted to say anything yet her eyes were drawn to him. He smirked. The evil bastard smirked. And suddenly, Hermione Granger understood. It had been his plan all along – on the one hand, show the Weasleys that he was bigger hearted, that he had no problems befriending Muggles and Squibs – and on the other hand, he was completely throwing them off track – by his presence only.

"So he is your new boyfriend?" Ronald got up as well, glaring at her this time. "That's why he's here all the time, that's why you want to keep the children?"

She had a choice, she knew. One definite, life-changing choice.

Say nothing – let Ronald think what he wanted to think or – deny it. Either way, Ronald would not believe her. So, she chose the third option. Not saying anything. She just remained silent.

Trouble was – both Severus and her parents were silent as well. All three of them, not saying a word and she had to look at him – Snape that is – and he merely returned her gaze. Just a normal look in the eye, not warm, not cold, just – neutral.

"So it's true!" Ronald shrieked and Molly fell back on the sofa.

xx

He wasn't sure what made him stay silent – not protest outrageously first against Mister Granger's statement and then against Hermione Granger's silence.

Friend of the family? Certainly not.

Boyfriend? BOYfriend? Boy friend of Hermione Granger? Certainly not.

And still, he remained silent. Said nothing. Sat and sipped his tea and tried to keep his face at least neutral, not smirking. Yes, yes, he understood why Hermione Granger had said nothing. This implication was – difficult for the Weasleys. Difficult for them to grasp. The good Gryffindor girl with him – a scandal. Not that it was true but he could see what kind of things the Weasleys were thinking. Him corrupting the poor, good girl. Only – when he looked at her now – sitting there, her cup of tea in her hands, she wasn't a girl any more. And certainly not someone who could be easily corrupted.

She knew what she wanted and – he and her parents were obviously the only one to see that. The was fighting for her children. For her to keep them, for the Weasleys, especially Ronald, to back off, and for them to respect her son for what he was – with his help. Really – if someone like him accepted Hugo Weasley – then they should.

Only, they were quite off topic. He spared a glance at Mister Granger – and he obviously thought the same and he was just getting ready to say something, when Arthur Weasley spoke up.

"I don't think we're here to discuss this particular topic, are we?" he asked, almost – testily. Severus had never heard him that way. He sounded impatient, and less than kind. "We're here to talk about the fact that my grandson is a...cannot do magic."

"Right," Hermione nodded and turned to Ronald Weasley. "I don't think it's anyone's business whom I see or not. The children are not concerned with it. And you, Ronald, have to chance to pick them up every weekend. And during the last three, you never came here. Last week, last Sunday, they were ready to go, had their shoes on already because you said you would be here around three and you never showed up. This is about you and me and the children. Not about him."

"You didn't pick them up? Ronald Weasley – you...," Molly shrieked.

"Molly," Arthur said, trying to placate her but she wouldn't be placated. "You did not pick your children up? Do I understand that correctly? You want your children to live with you – and your girlfriend who does not even know about this and you are not capable of picking up your children?" she yelled and towered over Ronald Weasley.

In that moment, Severus almost pitied him. Almost. Not quite. He knew – he knew now that there was nothing worse than not being there for one's children. He had made an impression by being here. And that was – what he had wanted.

"And what would I do with a child that can't even play Quidditch?" he replied in an equally unpleasant tone and he knew – with that, with those impulsive, unthoughtful words, he had not only lost the cause with Hermione Granger and her parents – but judging by the expressions of the senior Weasleys – with them, too.

"How dare you?" Hermione Granger was in front of him in a heartbeat. "You fathered this child. He's as much yours as he is mine. He's not more or less just because he cannot do magic. He wants to be a dentist. Just a dentist. Doesn't even want to be an auror."

"Well, Hermione, it's not usually the father...," Molly tried to interject but Granger was on a roll now.

"Who says so, Molly? Who knows? I don't even care. It's a fact. We can't change it by shifting the blame – there isn't even any blame. You saw him. You spoke to him. He is happy with what he is," she shouted.

"He's three years old. He doesn't know what he wants."

"He's four," Hermione Granger hissed. "He is four. And he is perfectly happy being what he is. And he will be as long as there are no people around telling him that he's in any way, shape or form disabled."

He watched, he had to admit, with a sort of amusement. She could certainly hold her own against Molly Weasley and Ronald Weasley. And Arthur Weasley, though that man only sat and watched as well - occasionally sparing him a glance. Surprised glance. Not more and not less.

It had turned into a shouting match now – between Ronald Weasley and Molly Weasley – and from time to time, Hermione Granger got in a word in edgewise. And yes, he could see that Molly Weasley did not want her son to have the children – but was not quite comfortable with the thought that her grandson was a Muggle. Squib. Whatever. But to be honest, his job, unsatisfactory though it had been (well, the silence and the tiny bit of squirming had been nice), was done and he wanted to go back home to Ophelia. Wanted to make her see that he was coming back. Always coming back to her. She needed to know.

"And it's my fault? Or my parents fault?" Hermione Granger suddenly shrieked – and a shrieking Hermione Granger was more than he could bear. He caught Missus Granger's eyes and nodded briefly before he stood up.

"Mister Weasley, Missus Weasley, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger, Missus Granger, Mister Granger," he said curtly, "I will take my leave, my daughter," he stressed the word, "is expecting me."

He nodded again – and turned towards the hallway, and then to the left, towards the front door.

Er, wait," Hermione came running after him and held him by the back of his robes.

"Yes?" he asked slowly, the door handle in his hand already.

"Thank you for being here. It helped," she said gently.

"I did not do anything," he replied before he could stop himself.

"Oh yes, you did a lot," she nodded and smiled. "Without you, it would have looked quite differently now."

He doubted that. Strongly. Molly Weasley would still be shouting at her son for not even caring about his children on the weekend and that children belonged to their mother and the rest of them would still be sitting around not saying anything. But – he wanted to go. Wanted to go to Ophelia. Home. Reassure her. So he just nodded.

"Erm, I am really grateful," she said and blushed a little. Only a bit, around the cheeks and it gave her face another look. Completely different though he he could not put his finger on it exactly. She just looked – more alive, maybe. And honestly, in there – the way she had stood her ground – admirable. Not quite as admirable as other things other people did – but, yes. Molly Weasley could be a bit much when she started yelling and shouting and arguing but Hermione Granger had remained relatively calm. Relatively sane. For a Gryffindor at least.

"Yes," he said again and nodded.

She bit her lip suddenly, let his slide between her teeth back to its normal position and when she spoke, she spoke softly, almost mumbling. "Mister Snape, erm, I'd like to take you out to dinner as a thank you."

He stood there. Rooted to the spot. I'd like to take you out to dinner as a thank you. It echoed in his ears, over and over and over again.

_**xx**_


	46. Chapter 46

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He just stood for a moment and looked at her with something akin to astonishment – though that expression was only in his eyes – again. And it was only a moment, a second. A second when Hermione felt there was the chance he would actually say yes – a second in which Ophelia's father – and not Severus Snape – stood in front of her.

A second later, however, the man she had seen in school all those years ago was back. The man who sneered, the man who looked down on everyone and everything.

"Good bye, Miss Granger," he said – his sneer as bad as ever and strode through the door, his robes, as she had seen them so often – billowing behind him and she groaned.

What had she been thinking? Asking him out? Insane. Stupid. Of course he would say no. Even if it was only about telling him that she was grateful.

She shook her head and, taking a deep breath, she went into the living room again. Molly was still angrily talking to Ronald. She had no doubt now that she would keep her children. With even Molly against it? And Arthur sitting quietly there?

"Sorry," she said softly and wanted to sit down, when Ronald was glared at her.

"Said good bye to your boyfriend then?"

She sighed. "He is not my boyfriend, Ronald. He's a friend of the family. And his daughter is the best friend of our son Hugo. What's your girlfriend doing?"

"Erm," he began and his eyes grew redder, "no girlfriend any more," he continued – mumbling and earned another glare from Molly – and this time from his father as well.

It was the first time now, that Arthur spoke up. He cleared his throat and sat a little straighter. "I have to admit," he said softly, "that knowing that Hugo is a Squib came as a shock. However, I do believe there is nothing we can do about it now. As such, I think we should, all of us," he threw his wife a pointed look, "try and be reasonable and let the boy grow up as normal as possible. I will welcome him to the Burrow, and as far as I'm concerned, he will remain my grandson, whether he might live in our world or not. But I will not allow my grandson to be raised as an outcast. So this will remain secret for the time being. Besides, I do not think it wise for you, Ronald, to raise the children full time. Henrietta told me that you assumed that she will stay home with them and you cannot do that. Not to that girl, nor to your children. I think you should start by being punctual to pick them up on the weekends," he finished with another pointed look at his youngest son and sat back.

"I agree," her father said quietly and nodded. "We should try and give both of them the same chances."

"I could take Ros..."

"Don't finish that," Molly glowered. "Siblings belong together. And children belong to their mother."

The rest – the rest of what they said was more or less lost to Hermione. She had her children. They were safe with her. Molly and Arthur, despite everything, were on her side. Despite everything that Molly had said about her in the past, even those things about Snape – she believed the children were better off with her.

And no, she did not mind Ron picking them up for the weekend. She did not mind at all. She just wanted to make sure, now more than ever, that he did not merely take them because he wanted revenge on her for leaving him. Revenge for the fact that she just could not bring herself to live with him any more. To make her suffer for what she had done. She would not allow that, could not allow that.

And she would still be working towards that law. She would still work, now more than ever, to make sure that Muggles and Squibs and Wizards, halfbloods, purebloods, Muggleborns, had the same rights.

She smiled to herself and leaned back as well, feeling her mother's hand on her arm and flashing her a smile. This entire afternoon had been better than she had anticipated.

xx

"Daddy!" Ophelia yelled and threw herself at him. "You came back!"

He held out his arms, picked her up and held her tight. "Of course I came back, silly little witch," he whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek gently.

He had come back! How had she ever doubted him?

Daddy was not like Mummy. Daddy was leaving her only for an hour (even less, she had asked Mary and she would have to ask Daddy to teach him how to read a clock) and came back and immediately cuddled her. And kissed her. And explained, once more, that he would always come back. And yes, she did trust Daddy but he hadn't even told her he would be leaving just before he did. And that had been bad. Because Mummy had always just put her to Madame Sylvie, had explained that she would be back (but not when) and had often mumbled that she should get rid of the brat and just keep the money. Of course she didn't mean herself with the brat. Maybe someone else. Ophelia never was sure.

And it didn't matter because Daddy only promised things that he kept. An hour and he was back within 45 minutes. That was Daddy. She smiled at him and kissed him on the nose.

"Daddy, we made chocolate cake," she explained conspiratorially. "And Mary said that it's just for us and we can eat it warm."

She felt him holding her very, very tightly to himself, his nose now in her hair, somehow and she felt him not moving his fingers but just holding her and that was strange. Usually, he always did move a little bit. Fingers or he kissed the top of her head – anything. Not today. Today, he did not move anything.

Maybe – maybe he was just as happy to see her as she was happy to see him. To have Daddy back – even if he had only just left for a short while.

"Love you, Daddy," she whispered softly and from the corner of her eye, she saw Mary grinning.

He only breathed deeply and he made absolutely no move to let her go.

xx

Something definitely had happened. Mary wasn't sure what it was, but him, standing there, hugging Ophelia as if he was seeing her for the first time in years, with his eyes closed and his nose deeply buried in her hair – that was not something he did every day. And she had grown to be an expert on Severus Snape's hugging habits. When he was in a particularly good mood, he tickled the girl – sometimes even with a slight, barely noticeable grin on his face. When he was in a difficult mood, he only hugged her briefly, and usually did not even pick her up. When he was angry, he did not really hug her.

But this clinging to her? This holding on to her? That was new.

"I was a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts," she said softly.

"Daddy says I'm a little Slytherin but he's not sure whether she should send me there at all," Ophelia struggled free from her father's vice-like grip and grinned at her. "Maybe he will teach me at home or find a better school."

"I think you should go to Hogwarts, sweetheart. Show them how brilliant Slytherins can be. My Joe was a Slytherin," she explained fondly. "And there are good people in that House. Very protective of their own," she grinned – had to – at Severus. "And she will give all those Gryffindors a run for their money."

He said nothing, merely stared back at her. No, of course he didn't understand. She didn't quite understand herself. But something had happened wherever he had gone to. And she intended to find that out.

"Ophelia, do you remember that I showed you where the icing is?"

The girl nodded happily. "Can, erm, may I put it on the cake?"

"Careful, alright?"

She nodded and wriggled out of Severus's arms and darted into the kitchen, leaving her to stare at her father. And him to glare at her.

"Would you tell me where you went? I could hazard a guess, but..."

He almost huffed (if such a thing were possible) and sat down at the table. "Hazard away, then," he said snarkily and she stared at him.

His feathers were ruffled. Something unexpected had happened. And the only unexpected thing that had happened lately – was that family. The family (she couldn't remember the name) with the boy who was Ophelia's friend (Hugo – she had told her) and the mother who had just divorced. And that Hugo lived with his mother and sister and grandparents and somehow Hugo couldn't do magic (it was easy to make Ophelia tell things). And Severus had mentioned something the other day about having to help stupid Gryffindors who could not solve their own problems. Maybe it was that.

Or that blonde, arrogant wizard who always came into the apothecary when it was empty and bought a vial of Stifforce Potion. Who always looked at Ophelia as if he wanted to cut her throat. He had mentioned him as well. Lucius Malfoy. Oh yes, she remembered him. Was a big regular at – the seedier establishments where no wish remained unfulfilled. Candace Ritter had told her things about him – no, she didn't want to remember and she knew stories about his past, of course. Maybe Severus had gone there – just to make sure that blonde man would not harm Ophelia.

Both possibilities.

Both as likely as the next. She merely looked at him and smiled gently. And waited. He usually cracked after a while – not used, apparently, to patience. He glared.

"The Grangers. Insufferable family."

"With the Squib-son?"

He nodded quickly.

"And what made you so," she paused, "insecure about that visit?"

xx

Insecure? Him?

No – merely surprised. Hermione Granger wanting to thank him? And as a way of thanking him wanting to take him out to dinner? Ridiculous. Absolutely, definitely, ridiculous. He had not done anything. He had just sat there – quietly. Had not even made a mean comment about foolish Gryffindors. Not a single one.

But she had looked at him oddly. Well, not oddly, maybe that was the wrong word. He wasn't sure how to describe it. It had been definitely different. Very, very different from the way she had usually looked at him.

And it had been – almost – almost – almost tempting. Dinner with Granger? And her, thanking him? What if not that – was revenge? Little, small, sweet revenge?

"She asked me to dinner," he muttered.

"She did what?" Mary grinned. "Asked you to..."

He growled. "Yes."

"And you said no," she sighed.

"No, I didn't say no."

"You just left then," she grinned. "Without saying yes."

He arched his left eyebrow. "Why should I go to dinner with her?"

Mary Kelly smiled gently and took his hand on the table. "Because she might be good for you, Severus. Because you can't only exist for your daughter and brewing potions for dotty old women like me. Because you need to have a life of your own and I love to watch Ophelia. Because this woman might do you good."

He stared – for the – umpteenth time that day at a woman. "You are not serious," he shook his head, got up from the table and went into the kitchen. Ophelia. Even if he was interested in a woman – not that he was – he could never do that to his little witch. Never.

_**xx**_


	47. Chapter 47

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

The door to Ophelia's room was ajar. His bedroom door was wide open. And he stood, for a moment only, between those two rooms and had to bite back a smile. Sometimes, his daughter's snores were louder than his own. Not what one expected when seeing such a sweet, little girl.

He sighed tiredly and walked into the kitchen. Too late to be awake, actually and yet, he experienced one of those bouts of insomnia that had tortured him for years. Still, after the war had ended, and after he had moved to the Alley, his sleeping habits had become more – normal. Still no eight hours a night, but maybe six or seven. Sometimes longer when Ophelia slept in his bed. Sometimes less when Ophelia slept in his bed and then little witch was awake much too soon and put fingers in nostrils or kissed him awake (always on the ear or the eyes or the nose). But he slept relatively normal, relatively nightmare-free.

Not that night.

Too many things going around and around and around in his head.

And most annoying of all – two things. Hermione Granger's mother. "Hermione's also very happy you're here," she had said.

And the woman herself, thanking him for doing nothing else than sitting there and having a cup of tea. Granted – he had also taken the tea tray in there but in a household with a little girl who was not allowed a wand yet and an older woman who did not have the means yet to buy one, it seemed almost normal that he would sometimes just carry or fetch things instead of summoning them with his wand. It had not been anything special – hence he had not even thought about using magic.

Mary Kelly had a way of making him do things. Giving her things from the top shelves (and this was a witch, albeit without a wand), setting the table together with Ophelia – he helped with all that.

And no, he found he didn't mind. He looked around his kitchen – it was now the centre of his life. And of Ophelia's life. And Mary's life. Though she slept in the coal flat. But this was where they spent most of their time. Well, apart from the apothecary. But that didn't count. Especially since Ophelia only rarely sat in her chair in the corner these days but helped Mary reorganise. And yes, he trusted that bloody woman to take care of his daughter. He trusted her to keep the little girl safe.

And – he trusted her opinion. To a certain extent.

Severus Snape switched a light on (with his wand this time) and wondered whether to make himself a cup of tea. Sleep seemed far away and a little tea wouldn't make a difference.

He sighed.

Yes, he trusted Mary Kelly's opinion. The woman was a perfect blend, in a sober state, between a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin – if he could even compare what she was to House standards. And really, he shouldn't. Hogwarts was far away and he had basically no ties left there. But in a very, very short time, she had managed what nobody but Ophelia had achieved before. Seeing behind the sneering mask. And as such, she was allowed to state her opinion.

And her opinion was – quite clearly – to go out to dinner with Hermione Granger. To accept the thanks (even though he had not done anything, really, except carry a tea tray and drink a cup of tea) and to just see different faces than hers and Ophelia's. But there was nothing wrong in only seeing hers and Ophelia's face. Besides, he saw a lot more people at the apothecary every day. Going to dinner with Hermione Granger. Ridiculous.

But...

There had been a look in her eyes and that look in her eyes was – interesting. It showed experience, it showed that she was interested, and maybe, just in the slightest, just in the teeniest slightest bit, interesting. And even if he considered going to to dinner with her, he could be sure that the Daily Prophet would not know about it. She would be just as careful as he was.

Only – he wouldn't leave Ophelia alone. Not even for the time it took to eat dinner.

"Still up, Severus?" he spun around and his wand was pointed at the person standing there – even though he know it was foolish. He knew Mary Kelly's gentle voice, even though she had, once more, surprised him.

"Yes," he growled. "What are you doing up here?"

She tutted. "Don't get like this. I couldn't sleep, sat outside and see the light on and decided to see if you were alright."

"I am," he replied.

"No, you're not," she argued softly and moved around the kitchen as if it was her own – and well, she spent more time in it than he did, cooked every day – mostly made three meals. Very securely, she put the kettle on and prepared two cups. "Will you talk about it voluntarily or do I have to ask and get bit by bit? Or maybe guess?"

He merely growled and she stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, rubbing soothingly. "Severus, I will watch Ophelia when you decide to go out with this woman..."

"I'm not..."

"Hush, Severus. You still don't understand, do you? You still think there is an evil plot behind all this. Or that she has a hidden agenda. And I don't think she has from the way both you and Ophelia talk about her and her family. She is, from what I gather, just decent person who goes to a rough time and wants to thank you for your support. And don't say that you didn't do anything. You do a lot without even realising it."

"I just sat there," he interrupted.

"Yes, and maybe that was just what she needed in that moment. For heaven's sake, sometimes you are a little daft, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked silkily, dangerously.

"No, honestly. Just go out for one dinner with her. It can't hurt you. And if you explain it beforehand to Ophelia, I doubt she will mind and make a fuss like she did today. Or rather yesterday," she leaned slightly forward and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Go out with her and you can rant at me, be angry with me all you like afterwards. Mh? Just try something new."

"Why should I?"

"Because all you have for company is a little girl and an old woman," she smiled and kissed his cheek. "And before you say that that's enough – yes, it might be, but you wouldn't be awake now if you didn't think about it."

The kettle whistled and he groaned. She had a point. He wasn't going out with Granger on a date. This was a thank-you-meal. And manners dictated that he should not reject a thank you. No matter whether he felt that he deserved it, or not.

"I can feel you thinking," Mary chuckled and put the cup in front of him. "Stop thinking and write her an owl. You have absolutely nothing to lose and if she's a bore, I know you will let her know instantly and leave."

He huffed and sipped his tea carefully. "I can't do it to Ophelia."

"You're not doing anything to Ophelia. You're not her mother – you didn't leave her in the next room when you're doing you-know-what with a client. And you don't just put her in the care of another – you-know-which because you work. And you didn't get a daughter just for the sake of the money that a stupid man paid," she scolded.

"How do you know?"

"I can make connections. And Ophelia tells a lot of things she doesn't understand but something that every adult will," she said sternly and took his hand over the table. "And you do not have to feel guilty for leaving her alone for an hour or two because you have a bad conscience that you did not have her right from the start. Things happen for a reason, Severus. And it's not as if you're marrying this woman. It's dinner, for Merlin's sake. Write that owl and I might even stop bothering you."

He huffed again – and said nothing.

xx

She squinted at the owl sitting on the window sill. She did not know it. Children were still in bed, Mum and Dad were still in bed and she hadn't really been able to sleep. She had been absolutely stupid to ask Severus Snape to dinner.

And yet, she couldn't stop herself from – wishing – to get to know him. Getting to know the man underneath the smirk and the sneer and the robes. Still, the way he had acted, she probably never would. And that made it – him – all the more interesting. She could puzzle it together – him with his daughter, him carrying tea trays, him, intimidating the Weasleys (or at least Ron) by his mere presence, and then again, images of him hugging his child. And explaining things to Rosie.

It didn't fit. It just didn't fit and she had to find out.

Only – she probably never would. Had scared him away. She sighed.

It was probably just as well. There would now be an owl of Molly's or Ron's, telling her that they would – anything. Or maybe something from work. Or – how should she know? She was cranky. Angry at herself. And tired. She slumped to the window and the owl, who had obviously been sitting there for longer than she had thought and she fed it a bit of owl treat before she untied the scroll and the owl took off – leaving her to lean against the window frame and read.

_Miss Granger,_

_8 o'clock, Muggle London. The Good Samaritan. Whitechapel._

_Severus Snape_

She stared – and stared. The parchment remained the same and the writing remained the same.

The message was Snape. And finding a pub that was called The Good Samaritan – could he even dig more? Rub it a little more in? But he was willing to meet her. At a pub, for a meal. Even if it was just pub grub. He was willing to meet her. Just meet her and that was a good thing.

And in Muggle London too. Away from the curious eyes of Wizarding reporters. Away from the Wizarding World in general.

In almost shock, she sat down and summoned a cup of tea. She had not expected this. Not at all.

"Mummy?" Rosie had come into the kitchen and stood next to her, her hand on her thigh.

"Good morning, love," she smiled, and opened her arms wide. Her girl fell in and snuggled in tight.

"Mummy?" she asked again.

"Yes?"

She seemed hesitant and discovered the parchment on the table. "Is Severus Snape Ophelia's Daddy?"

"Yes, love, why?"

"Are you going with him to there today?" she asked again – pointing at the parchment.

"If I can leave you two alone with grandma and grandpa, yes. If that's okay."

"Are you – is he, erm..., is he going to be your boyfriend?" she asked slowly.

"No," she chuckled. "I just have dinner with him. Because I need to thank him for something."

She sighed and snuggled deeper again. "Mummy? Do you love Hugo more now because he can't do magic?" she asked after a moment.

"Of course not. What gave you that idea?"

"Do you love me more than because I can do magic?" she asked in a small voice and added, quickly, "because I don't want that."

"Rose, I love you two exactly the same. It doesn't matter to me. Not at all, alright?"

Rosie nodded slowly and Hermione had to kiss her girl. She had almost expected that something like this would come eventually. But more from her Hugo, not Rose. She held her girl tightly and – had an idea and smiled.

"Would you like to help me pick out the clothes that I'll wear for meeting Ophelia's Daddy later?"

_**xx**_


	48. Chapter 48

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**Once more, I used an expression from Alabaster Princess and I thank her for the permission to do so!**_

_**xx**_

She checked her appearance a last time in front of the full length mirror in her parents' bedroom. She did not have one herself but it was alright, or maybe not, since, yes, since – her mother was watching with fascination anyhow.

She wasn't nervous – of course not (why should she be?) - but her mother's presence had almost made her so. She kept grinning and smirking and making innuendos. Idiotic, really. Yes, yes, he was interesting but not that interesting. And while he had beautiful eyes, she wasn't sure how she felt about the rest of him. Besides, he was not the type she would ever consider dating. Or being in a relationship with. Probably. But her mother kept on insinuating that and it grew boring after a while. And annoying, to be honest. Snape? No. And she wore normal clothes. Very, very normal clothes. Even Rose had approved (and Dad - and Hugo).

She focused on her reflection in the mirror and had to smile. Yes, Rosie had good taste. It was simple – blue jeans, a black, simple top. Gathered neckline, short sleeves and a long, woollen turquoise cardigan. Looked good with her colouring. Barely make-up – touch of mascara, touch of eye-liner, lipbalm, no colour. She was going to a pub. She was meeting her former teacher – not a future lover. Not even a potential future lover.

She was meeting Severus Snape and as such, she didn't have to be pretty or beautiful. He had known her as a hag-haired little witch. And while hers was now up and she had somewhat learned to deal with it, to manage it, it was still part of her and he was not someone she would have to pretend in front of that she was always perfect.

Not that she had done it in the past few years either.

Ron had known her as a hag-haired, bossy, stubborn, know-it-all witch and she had not seen fit to change it. However – maybe she wanted to.

Maybe she wanted to meet someone now who didn't know her since forever. Wanted to go out with men. And why not? She was single yet and she had absolutely no intention of getting tied down soon again. She definitely couldn't do that to her children – but going out from time to time? That she could do.

She smirked at her mother, winked – and after saying good bye to her children – rather longishly – she apparated away – with only the expectation to have a somewhat peaceful, nice evening. No fights – that was all she wanted. And she found she was looking forward just to get out of the house alone for once. Without children. Just her.

xx

He held her for a minute, and then another minute. Obviously, Mary Kelly had talked to her and she kept on poking his ear and the side of his neck with the tips of her index fingers, telling him to finally go eat with Hugo's Mummy. And he kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose gently and, eventually, she wriggled about in his arms and he had to let her down – and she grinned, pointed at the door and said 'Go.'

It was very different from the Ophelia that had clung to him before – and he hoped that she would be just as fine when he returned. Not that he expected her to be awake. She was almost ready to go to bed already and Mary knew that he liked having her in bed by eight thirty the latest (usually, it was much earlier but since she had wanted to see him leave – well, she had made those puppy dogs eyes again). Not that he would be home much later anyway. He would eat, he would probably growl a bit, insult her (he was good at it) and leave again. Simple. Normalcy restored. Her the annoying bookish person who thought she knew everything and him, the evil git who was arrogant and belittled everyone and had no love for nothing. Simple.

She would then stop thinking she had to thank him and would maybe even stop bothering him about her son playing with his Ophelia.

This dinner – maybe half an hour – would turn everything back to normal again.

And with that thought, he apparated. Half an hour. That was all it would take to put her back in her place in the decent Wizarding World, and him back into the not-so-decent place. And everything would be back to normal again.

He turned around the corner and she already stood there, her hair up in some sort of curly twist, her arms slung around herself and around the green cardigan she was wearing. Her eyes looked bigger than they ever had before and her lashes were darker than he remembered. Blue jeans, black shoes – boots probably. No heel. Just thick soles. As if on command, she unwrapped her arms around herself and the cardigan fell open – black top. No deep necklace but sort of gathered. Not too revealing.

She looked so – normal. Perfectly fitting into the Muggle World.

Yes, yes, he had made sure he was prepared for the meal in the pub. Nevertheless – it was black trousers and a white shirt with a black sweater over it. One never knew. And his coat. The coat he always wore when he went out with Ophelia.

But she just stood there now, arms by her sides, in front of the pub. Stupid woman for not even going in. Yes, it was rather warm for the end of April but still. She should be inside.

He groaned (the first time) and strode towards her. Her eyes seemed to scan the area – and suddenly fell on him. She smiled and he groaned (the second time).

"Hullo," she said almost shyly as she took a few steps towards him as well.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he replied and without waiting for her – or anything – he walked towards the pub – held the door open (he had manners, after all. Some – not many but enough) and let her step in. She smiled – and he groaned inwardly (three).

She waited – more or less politely – but he had no intention, absolutely no intention of ever being polite. He was Severus Snape. And Severus Snape was not polite. So he picked a table. In a corner. He liked not having to see what was behind him. He sat down without waiting for her, and pulled off his coat.

"Erm," she said and seemed very, very confused. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the slightest annoyed – yet. She would be.

"I take it since you invited me, you will be paying?" he asked silkily.

Hermione Granger blushed. "Yes, of course. What would you like?"

xx

She sat opposite him – drinks in front of them (who would have ever taken Severus Snape as someone who liked or at least drank Lager?) and he looked at her with this strange expression on his face.

It was, yes, very, very awkward. He said nothing and she was actually lost for words. She didn't know what to talk to him about.

That had – never – happened before.

Snape. Things associated with Snape.

Voldemort – couldn't talk about that.

Dumbledore – couldn't talk about that.

Lily Potter – couldn't talk about that.

Harry Potter – shouldn't talk about that.

Hogwarts – ?

Potions – yes!

His apothecary.

"Is your apothecary going well?" she asked politely.

"Yes," he simply replied.

"And – erm – do you only sell potion or do you develop some yourself?"

"I do occasionally develop a potion myself," he explained swiftly.

"Care to elaborate?" she asked – her tone growing colder. Just as his. Two could play this game. Clearly.

He looked at her for a moment and seemed to think about it for a moment. And another moment as he took a long sip of his beer. Still – his eyes never left hers and they were soft – warm one moment, and had grown cold again the next. It was as if he weighed the pros and contras of what he would, could, tell her.

"I developed a potion that stops any kind of addiction," he said very quietly. The pub wasn't that crowded but there were still people around that could overhear them. Definitely. Still, she rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hand – leaning forward.

"Any kind of addiction? Instantly?"

He nodded sharply. "Yes."

"It works? You take the potion and it works?" she couldn't stop to show that she was interested. As much as she wanted to – as much as she wanted to act as coldly as he did. She couldn't. This was a breakthrough. Something that no man or woman had ever developed. If it worked for Muggles – he could make more money with this than anyone had ever made before.

"Yes," he groaned.

"For Muggles?"

"Might work."

"You could make a fortune with this. Look at all the poor sods standing out there smoking. Look at them. I bet some of the would pay a lot if they were guaranteed not to ever have to smoke again. Just imagine the amounts of money..."

"I am not interested in money," he interrupted her and she couldn't help herself.

No – she couldn't. Severus Snape not interested in money? Developing a potion that was only for the good of mankind – and not being interested in money.

Interesting. Very – very interesting.

She smirked. "Are you doing this for fun then?"

He groaned. "Yes."

She nodded. Smirking. Interesting. Definitely interesting. "Did you have any problems leaving your Ophelia alone?"

"Did you have any problems leaving your children alone?"

xx

She shook her head. "My parents are brilliant babysitters. And neither Rose nor Hugo make any fuss when I leave for an hour or two."

"Interesting," he drawled.

""It definitely is," she smirked. A smirk – plastered on her face for the last two minutes. "Ophelia is well?"

He nodded. "Yes."

He looked at her – somehow, she had managed. Had managed to start a conversation. As he tried to make her uncomfortable with long silences, she had thought of a topic. Just like that. And it wasn't even that personal. It was – smart. He had to give her that.

And worse – she was right. If he modified the potion to work for Muggles, he would be able to make a fortune. But no, he didn't mind. He didn't want the money and with that, he had given himself away. He understood now. She thought – he groaned inwardly (fifteen) – that he was doing this out of the goodness (as if) of his heart. He wasn't. He hadn't.

Silence fell again and she – looked around the pub. She seemed especially interested in the men there. Some of them talking, some of them watching football on the TV. Some of them leaning against the bar. Some of them playing darts. Some of them eating.

His chance.

"Already looking for a replacement for Mister Weasley?" he asked acidly.

And she – surprised him. Chuckled. "No. Definitely not," she replied, laughing, smiling, chuckling, her eyes back on him. "But then again, why shouldn't I? Ron's not lived like a monk."

He arched an eyebrow. True – it was her business and after that night, he would not see her again anyway. He would antagonize her. Just had to find a decent way now.

Outright insult. Being the git he was supposed to be. The evil person. The insulting person. Simple.

Only – it wasn't. It just wasn't. And before he could think of something, something stinging enough to drive her away, she still smiled at him, and spoke. "And are you looking for a new mother for Ophelia? Not many women here."

He groaned (sixteen). "And why should I?"

"Why should I find a new father for my children?"

He clenched his jaw and couldn't bring himself to nod.

"I've made progress on the law," she said after a moment. "With the help of Susan Bones, I might be able to pull it through."

"What law?" he asked – despite himself. He was not interested. Not interested at all.

"The law that the parent which is more capable gets custody of their children if there is a fight over it. Not the parent with the higher blood status."

"And Miss Bones?"

"Is working as a secretary for the Wizengamot and knows a few people who might be interested."

"Interesting."

She nodded excitedly. "Even if my own children will stay with me because of Molly's and Arthur's intervention and the bit of luck that Hugo was born a Muggle – or Squib – it doesn't mean that now and in the future, there are other parents – mind, fathers and mothers – who are in my position and who will still lose their children because they're Muggleborn or halfbloods. And since this can't be all about me only, I will still try to get this passed. I will talk to Minerva McGonagall – since she's now Head of the Wizengamot. Have you heard? Anyway, I'm sure she will support me in this, especially with Susan's help. Susan's supposed to be her girl friday. Do they know the expression in the Wizarding World? My father used it the other night and it just fit..."

"Miss Granger, you should breathe once in a while," he interrupted. Really. That woman was almost blue in the face by now. But – he had to give her that. She had conviction. And yes, it was rather important – even for him – to know that his daughter would not suffer from even more pureblood-laws. His Ophelia was a halfblood – just like him.

"And you think this will help? That law? Only few Wizarding marriages get resolved."

She smirked. "Of course not this one only. But this is just the beginning."

xx

She reached out and shook his hand. It had been – a nice evening. Not more and not less. A bit of a wobbly start but when they had begun talking about the law – it had been better. He had even asked and she had explained. The law was going through – she believed in it. It merely stated that children were not to be placed with parents merely because of their blood status. Nothing more, nothing less.

And he had sounded – mildly interested. Especially when it came to pureblood law. He never gave his own opinion. Only asked what she thought. But it gave her a pretty good idea what he was thinking. Not very pleased by the purebloods who still thought they were superior. And since she remembered that his daughter was a halfblood as well – oh yes – he was doing all of this for his girl.

The only mystery that remained was the ominous woman called Mary. But she would have time to find that out. Definitely.

"I had a very nice evening," she said softly.

And he – groaned.

"No, really, Mister Snape. I very much enjoyed myself and maybe, if you'd like, we could do this again, some time?"

He didn't reply – not even shrugged – just shook her hand back. "The food was acceptable."

"Yes," she grinned, "thank you for coming."

He nodded "Good bye," - let go of her hand – and disapparated and she stood there – wondering what had just happened there. Severus Snape and her having a half-way normal conversation? In a Muggle pub? And she wasn't dreaming? Or was she? No. He had been snarky and mean and cold. But at the same time, he had listened. Always listened. Even when he seemed annoyed, he had listened.

Hermione shrugged to herself and apparated home. There was nothing more to do here and she needed to think.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you! Thank you very much!**_

_**There are three pictures up here – made by Isalie – for this story: Please give them a look and I'm sure she will probably enjoy your feedback (I hope you don't kill me for this). As always, no blanks:**_

_**http : / isalielovesfanfic . deviantart . com / gallery / # Inspired - by – coffeeonthepatio**_


	49. Chapter 49

**_The usual disclaimers apply._**

**_xx_**

_The Daily Prophet, May 2nd 2013. Page 32_

New Law passed

The Wizengamot passed a law today that states children whose parents are battling for custody are not to be given to one parent in particular only due to their blood status. In short, this means that the rare case of a divorce, not necessarily the pureblood parent will get custody of the children as it has been custom. It seems an unimportant law since there have been only 3 divorces in Wizarding Britain in the past 6 months. The only known divorcees are Hermione Weasley née Granger and Ronald Weasley but they share custody and split as friends. The law was proposed by Minerva McGonagall, head of the Wizengamot and passed without a dissenting vote.

xx

_Letter from Hugo Weasley to Ophelia Snape, May 6th 2013_

Dear Ofelia. My sister Rosie whose great wrot this for me. I hope you are well and I want to play with you again soon. Please. Can you tell your daddy?

Love, Hugo (and Rosie whose great)

xx

_Letter from Ophelia Snape to Hugo and Rose Weasley, May 7th 2013_

Dear Hugo and Rosie,

Mary wrote this for me. Mary is my friend and she said I could tell her what to write and she would do it. I asked Daddy and she said that you two can come over any time you like and Mary will watch us because he is too busy to watch over dunderheaded children who only run around (though, Rose – Mary is sure he will answer any questions you might have). He only said to send a letter beforehand.

Love,

Ophelia

xx

_The Daily Prophet, May 13th 2013. Page 33_

Heroine of the last war changes job

Hermione Granger has resigned with the MLE to work together with former classmate Susan Bones as an assistant to the Wizengamot.

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus Snape, May 25th 2013_

Mister Snape,

My children have been bothering me about letting them go to see you and of course Ophelia and please don't think I didn't want to but I changed jobs and that time was rather busy and my parents cannot take them, of course. I hope it would be convenient for you tomorrow or the day after. Or any other day – I could quickly apparate home now that I've familiarised myself with the new surroundings and could bring them over. If that's convenient, of course.

And additionally, I wanted to tell you again, that I liked our meal a month ago, even if it is very late to tell you now.

Regards,

Hermione Granger.

xx

_Letter from Ophelia Snape to Hermione Granger, May 26th 2013_

Daddy sais it's okey tomoro.

Ophelia

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Hermione Granger, May 26th 2013_

Miss Granger,

My daughter has just informed me that she invited your children for tomorrow. Please bring them here between 12 and 12.30.

Severus Snape.

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus and Ophelia Snape, May 26th 2013_

Dear Ophelia, Mister Snape,

I will bring by Rose and Hugo between 12 and 12. 30. They told me to tell you that they are looking forward to seeing you again.

Regards,

Hermione Granger.

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Mary Kelly, May 28th 2013_

Dear Missus Kelly,

I was very, very pleased to meet you. I have to admit that I did not expect it, especially since I had Severus Snape down as someone who would not let anyone entering his private spheres. Apart from his daughter, of course. I have to apologise for my manners in staring at you again. I had just not expected this and I hope you forgive me.

Ophelia seems very fond of you and you truly enchanted my own children. They cannot stop talking about you!

Best regards,

Hermione Granger

xx

_Letter from Mary Kelly to Hermione Granger, May 29th 2013_

Dear Miss Granger,

Of course I forgive you. I suppose everyone who ever knew Severus Snape would not believe me living here. But I am. The story how I ended up here, I cannot tell you but let me say that he is a very, very good man. He helped me when I was at the lowest point of my life and, don't tell him I said that, by now, I almost see him as a son and Ophelia as a granddaughter. I have heard stories about him, of course but during the time that he was considered infamous (an opinion, that I naturally do not share), I was not able to follow the news due to unforeseeable circumstances. As it is, I do know that seeing him with someone like me might be surprising. I help him out in the apothecary and I watch Ophelia occasionally and do most of the housework. I think your children might have told you.

I was sorry you could not stay for longer but I assure you that Severus will not mind letting Ophelia play with your children again. However, I have talked to him and after a while, he has consented to let me bring Ophelia to your home in consideration for your son. He said though, that you might not want that. I just wanted to let you know that there are both possibilities and I'm sure the children are in safe hands either way. And Severus thinks so too now and he might not even mind since your daughter seems to be very curious and instead of playing with Hugo and Ophelia, she followed Severus like a little ghost and asked him question after question. But I'm sure she has already told you that.

Best wishes,

Mary Kelly

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus Snape, June 1st, 2013_

Mister Snape,

Mary Kelly informed me that you would not mind having Ophelia sent over to our home. Hugo and Rose want to invited her over for a little celebration. I don't have the slightest idea what this celebration might entail but since I am sure my children have just made up a reason to see your daughter, I will probably never find out. Please consider bringing her over this coming Saturday at three in the afternoon. If you're unavaiblabe but want to let Ophelia go, please let me know and I will pick her up.

Best regards,

Hermione Granger.

xx

_Letter from Rose and Hugo Weasley to Ophelia Snape, June 1st 2013_

Dear Ofelia, will you come to our parti? We will cook tea and bake a cake with grandma.

Love,

Rosie and Hugo

xx

_Letter from Ophelia Snape to Rose and Hugo Weasley, June 2nd 2013_

I luv to come to your parti!

Ophelia

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Hermione Granger, June 2nd 2013_

Mary Kelly will side-along apparate with my daughter this coming Saturday at three o'clock.

Severus Snape

xx

_Letter from Mary Kelly to Hermione Granger, June 9th 2013_

Hermione,

What a party! I had almost forgotten how creative children could be. Having tea outside on tiny chairs was something I had not done in almost 40 years. Thank you so much – and please thank Rose and Hugo – for this. Ophelia could not stop babbling, gushing about it. I don't have to tell you that Severus, while pretending to be annoyed, was most happy to see his little witch so happy and so exuberant. Though I don't doubt that he was just a little jealous. But that's Severus.

Thank you again!

Yours,

Mary

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 15th 2013_

Dear Mister Snape,

Mummy doesn't know so I have to ask you. I have this potions kit now and I tried to put pansies into a mixdshure of peonies and hollyhock and woodruff and hyacinth. It is purple now and I don't know if I can do anything with it.

Love,

Rosie Weasley

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Rose Weasley, June 17th 2013_

Miss Weasley,

Pansies, peonies, hollyhock, woodruff and hyacinth. Simmer for a day, but let someone control the flame. It can be use as a bath additive.

S. Snape

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 18__th__ 2013_

Dear Mister Snape,

Thank you for your answer but I don't want a bath additive. I want something that will help grandpa with his alerdgies.

Love,

Rosie Weasley

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Rose Weasley, June 20th 2013_

Miss Weasley,

You are too young to brew a complicated allergy-potion.

S. Snape

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 21st 2013_

Dear Mister Snape

I'm not too young!

Love,

Rosie Weasley

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Rose Weasley, June 22nd 2013_

Miss Weasley,

You are too young to even have a potions kit.

S. Snape

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus Snape, June 22nd 2013_

Mister Snape,

could I bring by my children on Tuesday afternoon? My parents are away on holiday and I have a full schedule.

Best,

Hermione Granger

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 23rd 2013_

Mister Snape,

I'm not too young! Everybody always thinks I am too young!

Love,

Rosie

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Hermione Granger, June 23rd 2013_

If you have to.

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 24th 2013_

Mister Snape,

Can you please show me how to do an alergy potion for grandpa? When we come to visit you because grandma and grandpa are on holiday? Please? I will be very careful with the fire. I promise.

Love,

Rosie

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus Snape, June 28th 2013_

Snape,

Thanks for watching them!

Best,

Hermione Granger.

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 28th 2013_

Thank you so much Uncle Snape! Thank you! This will help grandpa!

Love and a kiss,

Rosie

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape and Rose Weasley, June 29th 2013_

Miss Weasley,

I do not recall allowing you to call me by that ridiculous name so please refrain from doing so.

S. Snape

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, June 30th 2013_

Dear Uncle Snape,

I like the name. Can you please tell me if I can use the daisies in the garden for a potion?

Love,

Rosie

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Rose Weasley, July 1st 2013_

Miss Weasley,

I am not Uncle Snape. And I presume your question is whether the daisies in your garden as the same as magical daisies? Yes, they are. But do not brew alone.

S. Snape

xx

_Letter from Rose Weasley to Severus Snape, July 2nd 2013_

Dear Uncle Snape,

Mummy took my potions kit away from me. Did you tell her? You're mean!

No love,

Rosie

xx

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Severus Snape, July 5th 2013_

Snape,

Has Rosie been bothering you with questions about potions?

xx

_Letter from Severus Snape to Hermione Granger, July 7th 2013_

She has asked a question and I replied. I suggest giving her her potions kit back otherwise she might just use your pots and pans which would be infinitely more dangerous.

_**xx**_


	50. Chapter 50

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

She could understand her daughter's thirst for knowledge. And in the field of potions – well, to be honest, Snape was the best person to ask. But to just take the owl and write him? No. Though, they way she saw it, it had been going on for longer than she had thought by the little stack of parchments Rose brought her with a huff.

She sat down pouting. With every reason, probably. Snape had suspected the right thing – Rosie was trying to brew under any circumstances – and Hermione had found her eyeing the pots with thinly veiled interest – and for such a long time, that she had put age lines around all of them. And around the cooker. But she was also hesitant to give her the potions kit again. She was not even seven yet – and brewing alone.

And had apparently been making a bath additive, according to the notes that Snape had sent her daughter.

Snape had sent her daughter letters. That alone was – amazing.

But then again – maybe not so. She had, through talks with Mary (definitely not his girlfriend – more like a mother, and housekeeper and babysitter) and seeing him with her daughter and her son and his daughter – and Mary – seen another Snape. Someone who was almost always willing to watch her children (or let Mary do it) and while never kind, or God forbid, friendly, he was always forthcoming.

Well – truth be told – he was kind and friendly. But not to her. Her children certainly never complained. On the contrary. The sooner they could return to the apothecary, the better.

And – she had surrendered. Again. But with the children on their summer holiday and her parents working and herself having to go in to the office today, she had no other choice, really. And Mary had said yes immediately. Hugo was always most happy to see Ophelia and to do some soft of handicraft with her and Mary and she knew that Rosie enjoyed watching Snape most and had almost adopted the chair that stood in the corner of his shop.

She shrugged to herself – and took her children's hands, apparating away.

xx

Ophelia had made it a point of dancing around him all morning. She always did when she knew that the Weasley brats and Granger were coming. And he barely got to see his own daughter on those days. Instead, he was stuck with the Weasley girl who asked him and asked him and asked him everything that came to her mind. He had to admit, really, that the questions she asked were not unintelligent. In fact, very smart for a seven year old girl. Ophelia asked smarter questions, of course.

He was actually surprised at his little witch. She enjoyed those days with the Weasley brats – and had not shown a sign of jealousy ever since that first time they had met. And the Weasley girl had occupied her chair in the corner more often than not.

Still, his girl always stormed into his arms the moment Granger had apparated her children away and needed to be hugged for at least a minute until he was allowed to put her down. And he had to be the one hugging her. Not Mary. Him.

But now, she was terribly excited and poked his legs and hugged his legs and grinned at him as he was trying to brew a new batch of Enchanting Elixier.

"Ophelia, will you stop bouncing?" he asked, "I'm trying to brew."

"But Daddy," she spoke in her explaining-voice – always sounding as if he should know, "I'm excited that Hugo and Rosie are coming because Mary said that she had thought of something special we could do."

He arched his eyebrow. "And did Mary tell you what that 'something special' might be and if that would take care of Miss Weasley as well?"

The Weasley girl – calling him _Uncle Snape_ in her letters? Uncle Snape? Ridiculous and he would make sure she knew it. He was _Mister_ Snape to her. And that answering of stupid questions would stop as well. Signing it Love, Rosie? No no. He would make sure that she knew this was not well received. That he did not want it. And if he hurt the girl – so what?

It wasn't his daughter. And let Granger console her.

Ophelia shook her head and lifted her little arms. Wanting to be picked up already? He groaned (but it almost sounded good-naturedly) and bent down to lift her in his arms. She snuggled her head into the crook of his neck and only wrapped herself around him. As much as she seemed to be growing used to the Weasley girl – and not reacting jealously, as much did she need the reassurance from time to time.

Truth be told – he did not mind. Did not mind at all.

Well, yes, he did.

In the moment that the door opened and in stepped Granger and her brood – both children also bouncing in excitedly. Happily. He groaned. He was in for a long morning again. And Mary Kelly was still upstairs making the beds. At least the woman had a wand now. He had insisted on it. And had taken her. Had bought her one. Birch and dragon-heartstring.

And he had told her to leave the beds and come down. He set Ophelia on her feet without the customary kiss and she leaned against his legs for a moment before she darted forwards to greet her little friends.

"Good morning, Mister Snape," Granger said friendly. "I want to apologise for my letter. Rosie told me she started asking you and she showed me your replies. Thank you for telling her not to brew on her own."

He nodded and a moment later, was glared at by a young Weasley.

"You're mean!" she repeated. "Mummy still hasn't given me back my kit and I'm not allowed to brew and can't reach the pots in the kitchen."

"Rosie, Mister Snape did not tell me to take the kit away from you," Granger said and put her hands on the girl's shoulders.

"You can brew with Daddy today," Ophelia chipped in, "he's making Enchanting Elixier today and it's fun to make."

"Ench...Snape!" Hermione said scandalised. So what if the potion was technically considered a love potion? Muggles used beer goggles for the same thing. Very popular with husbands and wives all over the Wizarding World. And no, it was not a love potion. It was just a beautifying potion, really. Only the person drinking it was not beautified. The other person was. Really – one of the most popular potions in his shop.

"What?" he snarled. "It's not forbidden."

"It's restricted!" she glared at him.

He smirked. "And you will find that I am well within that restriction," he replied coldly – of course that was just the one cauldron. The hundred or so more vials in the back – they were not generally within the restriction. And no, he did not check for anything when he sold the potion to someone. He did not care who bought it and why. He just made money. That's what he had his apothecary for.

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to."

"But..."

"Miss Granger, if you do not trust me, why do you bring your children here at least once a week?" he asked.

xx

She stood there, her mouth hanging open when he spoke. "Miss Granger, if you do not trust me, why do you bring your children here at least once a week?" he asked and before she could reply, he continued, "Or is it because you cannot find a babysitter? Maybe you should have let your husband have your children after all if you do not have the time to care for them."

"I want to stay here, Mummy!" Rosie shrieked and tugged on her arm. "I don't want to go to Dad now, I want to stay here with Uncle Snape and brew!"

"Yes, Mummy, want to stay with Uncle Snape too!" Hugo nodded fiercely. "No Dad today."

She stared at her children, Uncle Snape? Uncle Snape? When had they started that? And he was fine with that? With Uncle Snape?

Ophelia had moved to his side again and held his hand. "Can they stay, please, Daddy? You don't mind being the babysitter for us, please?"

"I can't believe you just said that," she finally found her voice and snapped. "You honestly think that Ronald would be a better father than I am a mother?"

He just looked at her – indifferent and she huffed. "Ronald is not a good father. He hasn't picked them up in 2 months," she hissed. "Don't you dare ever saying this again."

He arched an eyebrow and there was the hint – the slightest hint – or a nod. A tiny hint of a tiny nod. Or maybe his head was just moving the tiniest bit because his eyebrows went back to their normal place.

"I'll pick them up in about 3 hours," she said coldly and, after kissing her children good bye, she left the apothecary. She needed to walk off some of the anger. How dare he say a thing like that? Ronald was acting like he had no responsibility in the world lately. And he was – at the moment at least – not a good father. He was not doing anything. Wrote an owl, yes, every week, if they were lucky. Even Molly wrote more. Everyone. Hell, she had had more communication with Snape than with her ex-husband.

And just because she wanted to work and her children were happy to be with Snape – though why she didn't know – and she decided that she could save the money on the babysitter if they wanted to see his daughter and him anyway.

She huffed and almost ran up to Diagon Alley. Not because she was scared, no. Knockturn Alley had lost its scariness after a while but this anger needed to get out of her before she returned into the office.

But then something stopped her in her tracks. She knew – she knew that his comments were biting. That they were hurting. They were meant to be. And still, she had been surprised by the biting, hurting comment. By the acidity. She had been so stumped by what he had said – and yet, it should not have surprised her.

She had – slowly – during the last few weeks, talks with Mary, experiencing him, listening to all three children basically gushing about him – thought she had gotten to know the other Snape. The Snape that hugged his daughter and loved her and was answering her daughter's letters.

Apparently not. And that was – surprising. To know that he was a different person towards her than towards Mary, towards Ophelia, towards Rosie, towards Hugo.

And she had no idea what she could do to make him change and make him treat her like those other people. And moreover, she had no idea why she wanted him to.

xx

Of course Ronald Weasley was a rotten father. He heard the children talk after all. And they only said that Dad didn't want to be called Daddy any more and that he never came to see them any more. Only occasionally. And of course it wasn't Hermione Granger's fault that her children liked to spend time with Mary Kelly (and in case of Rose Weasley – with his cauldrons) and in his apothecary. He was almost certain that she would have no trouble finding a decent babysitter for them.

But he also knew that in case Ophelia wanted something really badly (and stated as much), he had difficulties saying no. Especially if it was something he could give her.

He heard Mary coming in and ushering all three of them into the store room but he was deep in thought . Of course she wasn't a bad mother. And she was someone who wanted to work. He couldn't blame her for that. And she spent a lot of time with her children, both of them said so. Mary said so. Mary who had almost adopted Hermione Granger too.

He didn't think either that Hermione had given them the idea to call him Uncle Snape. She had looked mortified when both the Weasley girl and the Weasley boy had said it. He had just been – angry – and had taken it out on her. Naturally.

But he wasn't sure why it bothered him now. He had never had trouble before to lie in order to hurt a person. Though usually it was more painful to tell the truth.

He sighed softly and wanted to turn his attention back to his Enchanting Elixir. Oh bloody Hermione Granger. Had to be so bloody perfect all the time. Had to know what Enchanting Elixir was. Had to point it out. And she wondered why he had said those things? Nobody meddled in his business.

"Uncle Snape?" a soft voice next to him asked and he felt a tug on his sleeve.

"Do not call me that," he snapped at the Weasley girl.

"What should I call you?" she asked with wide eyes. She had her mother's eyes. Definitely.

"Mister Snape," he explained sharply.

The insolent girl, however, shook her head. "You're not a Mister. You're an Uncle. Or maybe a..."

"Do not even consider finishing that sentence," he replied coldly.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, her lower lip ever so slightly trembling. He hated it when Ophelia did that. He knew she was close to crying then. And Rose Weasley seemed to be just the same way.

He merely groaned and – without saying another word, lifted her up and put her on the stool just in front of the cauldron. This way, he hoped, she would focus on the potion and not on the fact that she had just wanted to cry.

_**xx**_


	51. Chapter 51

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He knew she stared and she probably had every reason to. Had enlarged the stool, had now two children, two little girls standing in front of the cauldron, in front of him, and both little girls had for the moment, leant back a little to see better how the wormwood reacted to their concoction and how the thickly brown goo turned into a silvery white, thin liquid. Ophelia had her back pressed a little more against his chest but the Weasley girl (oh very well – Rose – damn his daughter for making him call the children by their first names) was leaning against him as well. No, it was not Enchanting Elixir any more. That was done. It was simple Sunscreen Solution. His Ophelia with her pale skin would need it. And both girls had been so interested, though Ophelia had more knowledge already – and the Weasl...Rose, made it up in enthusiasm. For his daughter, it was normal that she could brew every day but – Rose – had her potions kit taken away.

Oh, he had wished for someone to brew with him when he had been their age. Hadn't been possible. Had only had the books his mother had hidden.

So – he could understand the Weasley girl's wish. But he knew Granger was more than capable of brewing with her child herself. And she was more than capable of letting her son draw. As Mary was doing. Granted, she had let him (and Ophelia before) draw little images of the plants or animals that were in the jars in any shape (absolute nonsense and he would forbid her to stick them on any kind of thing in his apothecary – this was a serious business, not a nursery) but Granger could do that just as well.

No – the woman was too bright to stay at home with her children all the time. He could just imagine how she must have been as a child. He had a spitting image in front of him at that moment. Very interested in the material, very curious, very precocious and while his Ophelia was curious, she was not overly so. And she certainly didn't blurt her opinion like Wea – Rose – did. Ophelia thought longer before she said something. The other girl did not.

And he trusted Ophelia more to stir the way he wanted it to. And he did not have to say much. Ophelia understood when he said 17 clockwise. The other girl didn't. Not for a lack of trying. Or soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

So – yes. He could understand that she was staring – her eyes wide open and her mouth – well, to be honest, her face had a funny expression. And apparently, she was not angry with him any more. No mean feat. He had, after all, insulted her personally.

But she seemed completely surprised by her daughter and his daughter standing so close together peeking into the cauldron. Neither of them had even noticed her coming in yet and he had a moment (and used it) to look at her more closely.

He had had some time during that meal they had shared a few weeks ago (more than three months ago he noticed) to do so but she looked a little different now. Her hair was hanging down to her shoulder blades in rather tamed, big curls and her eyes were less pronounced and she wore robes. Nicely fitted black working robes.

But why was he looking at her like that anyway?

He nodded at her politely, as politely as he could at least, then turned his attention back to the cauldron.

She had to come in at a crucial stage.

"Please put the eucalyptus leaf in, Miss Weasley," he said calmly.

"Rose, Daddy," Ophelia's elbow connected with his stomach. "You promised."

"Please put the eucalyptus leaf in, Rose," he repeated, exasperatedly and yes, of course, when he looked up, she still stared.

"Okay, Uncle Snape," she replied and carefully let it drop in. He would have to tell her (and her brother) again that he was not and would never be Uncle Snape. But all the talk he had done – nothing. They just stuck to it.

"Ophelia, 12 anti-clockwise, please," he said after a moment and looked up at Granger again. Her expression had softened somehow and she almost smiled.

"Are you three making Sunscreen Solution?" she asked softly.

He was surprised. Had she guessed that? He had seen her come in. She had not watched from outside. It had been the eucalyptus, probably. It was only in a handful of potions. Most to the with coughing or colds – and this was not the season to make them. But it was quite unknown that only few potioneer added one single eucalyptus leaf to Sunscreen Solution. It stopped inflammation even before it started, made it basically impossible to get a sunburn. Even if one remained in the sun for a long long time. But only rarely used since one smelled like a cough drop after applying it and the wrong leaf would turn it bad.

And she had known that? She had been knowledgeable in potions in school – but this? He had not expected. It was his turn to stare – at that small smile that played on her lips.

"Mummy!" the – Rose – shrieked and grinned at her mother. "We're making Sunscreen Potion and Uncle Snape said I could take some with me."

"I did no such thing," he caught himself just at the right moment.

"Yes, Daddy, you did," Ophelia pulled the stirring rod out of the solution with a flourish and put it on the working table before she turned around and looked at him. "You said Rose was allowed to take some because red-headed dunderheads get sunburned easily."

"Yes," the Weasley girl nodded. "You did, Uncle Snape and I said thank you a lot and you made this funny face," she added and pulled a grimace that looked nothing like his sneer. Which, yes, he had done.

Alright, so he had said that he would give them some.

"Is that another dig at my mothering skills?" she asked and her face had fallen.

"No," he replied slowly, "it..."

"It is because we made it together," Ophelia said softly. "And because it's the best Sunscreen Solution there is."

Suddenly – she smiled again. "I would have expected no less from you, Snape."

He frowned. What had that meant? And how did she know what they had been brewing?

"How did you know it was Sunscreen Solution?" he asked – and was, once more – interrupted by a Weasley. This time, the boy came dashing into the shop, greeting his mother enthusiastically, showing her a picture he had drawn and he – well, he didn't care about seeing that and shooed Ophelia and Weasley – Rose – from the stool and tended to the rest of the potion, filling it in two different little pots. As it cooled off, it would become more solid and could be applied to the skin.

He looked up at her again – and she still smiled at him.

xx

A sight to behold. Her daughter trusting someone enough to actually lean back on them? Unheard of. Rosie hugged her and Hugo, her father occasionally and her grandparents. All four of them. She hugged not even her cousins. And leaning back against her _Uncle Snape_? Incredible.

And making Sunscreen Solution? The good variety with the eucalyptus that she could not really buy anywhere and that was tricky to make?

Yes, yes, she had known. It was the way it smelled, really. And no other potion was stirred 12 times anticlockwise after adding only one eucalyptus leaf. It was debated in all potions magazines lately even though this method and ingredient had been used for a long time. And plenty of people were against it. Not him, apparently, and certainly not her – it was the only thing that really allowed her to let the children play outside without fear that they would come home sunburned.

But apparently, she had impressed him with that. At least it seemed that way. His face, for a brief moment, had shown his surprise at her for knowing this. Of course he wouldn't know that she read not only the things concerning her work but also Transfiguration and Potions publications. She needed it. Needed to know what was happening in academia. Needed to understand, needed to be on top. It was in her nature.

And she loved seeing her children so happy and carefree around this man that had scared her and probably ever student at Hogwarts back when she had been a child. A teenager. Her children did not know that man. Knew someone else they trusted. Hugo just darted past him with a drawing in his hand. No Hogwarts student would have dared to just run past him. And her son did. With a broad grin on her face, straight to her, almost knocking her over (yes, yes, she had not really paid attention, her eyes had been on Severus Snape) and showing her the drawing. Of a Flobberworm and a Manticore and a – tortoise – as he explained.

"This is Skippy, Mummy," he explained, one chubby finger on the rainbow-coloured tortoise. "She's Ophelia's pet."

"I heard she had a tortoise," she replied. "And you called it Skippy?" she turned to Ophelia and decided it was better to be eye to eye with the children – the floor was cleanly swept, she noticed, and she had absolutely no qualms of getting down on her knees.

"Yes, she's called Skippy," Ophelia replied – a little shyly.

"That's a lovely name," she smiled, and – smiled up at Snape. He still looked somewhat puzzled. But not evil puzzled. Kindly puzzled. And just puzzled. And Mary – the kind, lovely woman appeared by his side, next to him.

"I read, Mister Snape," she explained gently, "and there has been a lot of articles and discussion in Potions Quarterly about the property of eucalyptus. And there has been an item on Sunscreen Solution in the last one." She smiled at him and got up. "I am glad however, that you put it in since I've had a batch from Hogsmeade two years ago and it was the only thing that really worked for Rose and Hugo."

He made a noise that almost sounded like approval but it was Mary that spoke.

"Must be difficult with their fair skin," she smiled and moved towards Hermione – hugging the woman one-armedly.

"Oh yes," she groaned. "And especially Hugo – leave him outside when the sun is shining for three minutes and he's sunburned."

"Severus, you will make some extra?" she turned to him and he made a non-committal noise. Did this man only make noises? No, that was unfair. Of course he was very eloquent. But maybe he did not want to say anything mean in front of the children. Not again. Maybe he was being kind in only making noises. She shrugged inwardly. As long as he did not make another one of those snide comments when the children were there, she was fine with it.

"I'd be very much obliged," she smiled warmly at him.

"Yes, yes, fine," he replied coldly. "You can take some anyhow."

"Thank you."

Mary sighed and went on to explain that Hugo and Ophelia had made labels for the jars in the store room, drawing all the plants and animals that were in any way, shape or form, in there. She doubted however, that Snape would allow them to stick them on there. He did not seem the type. Nevertheless, she could not hide her smirk at imagining it.

But truth be told, she did not completely focus on what the older woman was telling her. Her eyes were on Severus Snape, cleaning the cauldron, pretending not to listen, putting a fresh pewter cauldron on a flame and began with boiling water before he worked cautiously, harpy-claws, a tiny bit of ginger and juniper, moonflower. He stirred carefully twice and lowered the flame underneath the cauldron.

She completely stopped listening at that moment and with a slowly lifted hand, she moved towards him, coming to a halt on the other side of the counter, peeking into the cauldron.

"Felix? Felicis?" she asked quietly.

He nodded sharply. "And don't talk about regulations again," he said silkily.

"I wasn't going to," she back-pedalled quickly. "I just never seen it made, to be honest."

He arched an eyebrow. "Slughorn never was able to brew it."

She shook her head. "And when I returned for my seventh year, Chenzier did not even mention it," she said sadly.

xx

He looked at her – into her eyes. Never even seen it made. Well, that was no miracle at all. Slughorn did not have the needed flair to brew it. And Chenzier – while he did not know him personally – was not reputed to be a brilliant potioneer. More heavy-handed. Definitely not the accuracy one needed for Felix Felicis. But she knew how it was made. The bookworm had probably read all about it. New about it theoretically but had missed the practical approach. Shame really, since especially Felix Felicis was one of the most beautiful potions anyone could brew.

Not from the Ingredients – those were simple. But the beauty of it lay in the exact measurements, the exact timing, the exactness one had to use throughout. And of course, in the colouring. It grew from colourless to pale silver, to deeper silver, pale golden, then a deep, amazing shade of hold when it was finished.

He had, to be honest, the exact measurements he needed in special jars. Ingredients were prepared beforehand – at least those he could. The Manticore's eyes he would have to chop just before they went in. But before that, it had to simmer for a day.

"May I?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder and as he followed her glance, he saw that Mary had reacted quickly and talked to the children.

He raised his left eyebrow and – hesitantly – he nodded. She all but ran around the counter and stood next to him, looking into the cauldron.

She stood close. Very, very close, her hand almost touching his and her elbow against him. She smelled like – pineapple and thyme and a wave washed over him as she bent down slightly to peer into the cauldron closer.

"What is going in next?" she asked. "Unicorn hair?"

He nodded briskly. "But..."

"Six hours and thirteen minutes," she interrupted. "So you get up in the middle of the night?"

He nodded again. "Yes."

She straightened and looked at him and he looked at her. It was strange to see her like this – still the curious, know-it-all, bookworm but so adult, so interested, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes shining and he could not tear his eyes away for a moment. Her scent waved over him, and her eyes were almost sparkling by now and she smiled. She smiled at him and he noticed a tendril of hair brushing against her cheek and he was almost mesmerised – only just. And that only until – oh, he understood. She wanted to watch. She wanted to see it being made.

"You will not ask if you can come watch, are you?" he asked.

xx

She had never appreciated his eyes. She had seen them as probably his best feature before, yes, physically, but they were so beautiful when you saw them from a short distance. They were very, very beautiful and pulled her in and she couldn't pull hers away. Her breathing was a bit quicker – seeing Felix Felicis being made – those sort of things made her breathing go quicker – and she knew, instinctively, that she wanted to watch. Even if it meant getting up in the middle of the night.

Suddenly, a scent washed over her and she wasn't sure whether it was the potion bubbling or whether it was him but it smelled heavenly. Juniper. And ginger. And something else she didn't know. And it was lovely. More than lovely and she was close to closing her eyes to identify the component of the scent she could not identify yet – but before she could – and yes, she was still looking in his eyes – he began to speak.

"You will not ask if you can come watch, are you?"

She couldn't help the laugh that escaped her throat. "I always thought I wasn't that transparent."

He arched his eyebrows again. "Oh but you are."

"Can I come watch?" she asked, smiling.

**_xx_**


	52. Chapter 52

**_The usual disclaimers apply._**

**_xx _**

He grimaced. But – Felix Felicis was a tricky potion. And she obviously knew what she was doing. And if she didn't – he could always belittle her. He could always – throw her out again. Would give him another reason not to see her again. That would be – better anyway.

But a third hand? Would probably not be bad. But no, he most certainly would not say that.

"Would you accept it if I said no?" he asked snarkily and received – a weird look from her. Calculating. Very, very calculating.

"I'd probably knock anyway," she answered after a long moment – shrugging one shoulder. "And if you wouldn't let me in, it would just be the first time I was in Knockturn Alley at night."

He nodded. "It is not as bad as everyone thinks," he murmured.

"No, I don't think it would be. It would still be a pity if you wouldn't let me in," she looked into his eyes – again and it seemed she had difficulties pulling them away. As – truth be told – had he. Her eyes, normal brown – quite average – were bigger than he had remembered them to be and without the black mess she had made on her lashes she had had on that meal they had shared, they seemed even longer and fuller and – just dark brown. She had the same eyelashes as her daughter. Or her daughter had the same lashes she had.

"Be on time," he said quietly and turned back to the cauldron.

Wondering, of course, why he had said that. Why he had not thrown her out. And why the image of her eyes and lashes surrounding them were still lingering on in his mind.

xx

She wanted to jump up and down and up and down for joy. Seeing Felix being brewed? Dream come true.

No, no, she didn't care who it was for or why he brewed it. She didn't want it for herself (though – well, thinking about it...no. Well – maybe) but to see the beauty she had only ever read described, that was magic in its purest form. There were currently three masters in all of Wizarding Britain who brewed it – including Snape. And she was allowed to watch. More or less. A single, little vial – a sip only – one dose – was sold for as much as 20 000 Galleons. And she could be present when this piece of art – this one masterpiece of potion-brewing. The one thing everyone strove to make – and only few succeeded. And she would be able to watch.

No, really, she felt like a giddy little girl, looking forward to seeing magic for the first time – no, she even felt like a giddy little girl who had her wand in her hand and waited for the moment until she had read enough to try it.

She nodded briskly. "Thank you," she whispered gently and turned back to her children – before she looked over her shoulder again, "Thank you."

xx

She smiled to herself. It was – this was – the beginning of something. She was sure of it. The glimmer in Severus's eyes – and the same glimmer in hers when they had stared at one another – for at least a minute – it was unmistakable. At least in Mary's eyes. And she would make sure that those two had a quiet night together brewing Felix. Oh yes, for her age, her ears were very good. Very, very good.

Oh, well – a quiet night in a dark apothecary with a simmering cauldron in front of them – not her idea of romantic but if it worked for both of them, it would be fine with her.

Those two would be good together. Nothing completely solid, but a relationship – he here with Ophelia and she wherever she lived with her children. They were both devoted parents. And both too afraid to hurt their children to jump into a new relationship that was open, that included living together – that might even include marriage. But – a steady fling – possible. And hopefully, would work out without her aid. And if they didn't manage – oh well. She could nudge. And she had no qualms about doing it. None at all.

She smiled openly, hugged Hermione and her children, picked up Ophelia, let her wave, paying attention to Severus all the time. But the daft man pretended to be busy with his potions.

She was smarter than to say anything. She would not begin to nudge now. She would say nothing. Absolutely nothing. And wait. Be patient.

xx

She eyed her Daddy suspiciously. He was quite absent during dinner and he only played with his food. If she ever did that, Daddy would be angry and would tell her to eat because she was too thin. And he was one to talk. He was just as thin as she was. And that was unfair. But he always looked somewhere out of the window and into the distance even when she talked and that didn't happen often.

She did it sometimes, when she was sad and remembered Madame Sylvie and the time that Mummy had left her alone or that Mummy left her alone or something like that. She always sort of looked into the distance, relaxed her eyes, and all become blurry and unfocused.

It really seemed that Daddy did that now. And the spaghetti that Mary had cooked tasted so wonderful! She really wanted to bathe in that sauce. And Daddy was only pushing his fork into the spaghetti and didn't eat a bit. And Mary wasn't there to see that he did eat.

No, Mary said she needed a bath and pick out a book and some time for herself because later, she would come up again and checked that she was sleeping because Daddy had to finish the potion at night. She really, really wanted to watch – but she knew Daddy would say no and she didn't want him to say no. She hated when he said no. And therefore, avoided it when she could. She was a smart girl after all. And knew her Daddy.

And that was why she slipped off her chair and walked around the table to stand in front of her Daddy. And when he didn't react, she climbed onto his lap. He wasn't even sitting close enough to the table!

"Are you not hungry, Daddy?" she asked when she felt that his attention had returned.

"No, I'm not," he said and his voice sounded very strange. She was quite good at finding out in what mood her Daddy was by his voice only – but this – she wasn't sure she had heard it before. It seemed very puzzled and tired.

"Are you sick?" she asked and kneeling on his thighs, she flung her arms around his neck and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"No, I'm not sick, Ophelia," he replied and his large hands were on her back.

"Are you tired?"

He shook his head. "No, Ophelia, I'm a little confused."

"About what?"

He sighed and pulled her to him, hugged her so she couldn't see his face any more but that her ear was pressed against his ear. "A lot of things," he said gently.

"About Mary? Or about Hugo's Mummy? Or that Hugo can't do magic? It's not problem, Daddy. Hugo says that he's happy he doesn't have to go to Hogwarts and he doesn't want to do magic. He wants to be a dentist. Do you know what that is?"

"I do," he said, "Do you?"

She shook her head. He had tried to explain that it had something to do with teeth but she didn't quite understand.

"They are doctors for teeth," he explained gently. "When your teeth hurt in the Muggle world, you go to a dentist."

"And are you confused because of that?" she knew exactly what he was doing – trying to get her to forget about what she had asked. But it wasn't working now. Definitely not.

"No, Ophelia, I'm not confused because of that," he said and still held her. It was very odd. Daddy never was this way. He was usually very sure of what he was doing, saying, talking about. It seemed very different. He was never confused and he only held her like this when she was sad or scared.

"Are you only confused, Daddy? Or are you scared, too?" she asked in a little voice.

"I'm not scared," he replied instantly. "And only confused because of a potion, little witch. I will sort it out when you sleep."

She nodded. Daddy often worked on strange and difficult potions and he often invented new ones that were very very difficult and she could understand that he was confused about that. But – this was her opening, she thought, and grinned a little.

"When you're so confused about the potion, may I stay with you and help you?"

He held her at arm's length now, her still kneeling on his thighs and he smirked. "Ophelia, do try not to be so transparent."

She grimaced. "But I don't want you to be confused."

"I won't be," he replied and seemed to grow more exasperated. "And little witches have to be in bed at the time," he added – and his voice was the one that always proceeded a severe tickling. She looked at him, frowning – and decided quickly.

"No," she shook her head adamantly. "Little witches have to be with their Daddies brewing potions."

"That's what you think," he said silkily and began the mean, mean tickling. She could only shriek and yelp and laugh.

Daddy was mean. And she had only wanted to help him. Mean!

But then again, he tickled her and smiled while doing it. So she had managed to make him a little happier now. And that was good!

xx

John grinned. His daughter had not been that excited for – years. She was giddy and danced around the rooms and kissed her entire family at least twice within the time of 5 minutes, ate her tea with gusto, brought her children to bed, read to them for a long time, then disappeared into her own bedroom and came back out, half an hour later, in Wizarding robes he had never seen on her before. A dark red, long, her hair piled up on her head and she smiled.

"You're very beautiful tonight," he said to her in a moment when his wife was busy with the television and the remote control, "All that for Mister Snape?" he added with almost a sly grin.

She shook her head immediately. "I might go somewhere afterwards."

He had always known when she was lying. There was no outward sign on her face, nothing, but he knew. Instinctively. He grinned and kissed her cheek. "Have fun, my girl."

"Daddy!" she whacked his arm. "I might be going somewhere afterwards."

"Hermione, it's almost twelve at night," his wife said, her eyes still on the telly – and she continued when she turned her head. "Where do you want to go after...oh dear. Those are nice robes," Jude grinned. "I see."

"You're impossible," she huffed, said good bye and apparated straight from the living room – something she usually did not do.

He couldn't help but laugh. So his daughter had her eyes set on Severus Snape after all.

"My my," Jude chuckled. "Haven't seen her this dressed up in a while."

"Me neither," he laughed and sat down next to his wife again. "But we should let her be. You know how she is..."

"Yes," Jude sighed and leaned against him, "pressure her and she will do the exact same opposite of what you want her to do."

"Hm, yes," he replied and kissed his wife on her temple. "But he's a good man and he would be a good man for her."

xx

He went down to his apothecary, it was dark and with a flick of his wand, he had lit some candles. It was the best light for the next stage of brewing the Felix. People could construe this as romantic but no, it wasn't. Only more light would probably destroy the potion at this stage. He could not risk that. No matter if Hermione Granger was there or not.

His smart little witch had seen him being confused about it. It was a mistake – it would be a mistake letting her in. It was a mistake letting her watch.

Because – she – to a certain not so large extent – had impressed him with her knowledge. And her interest. And the obvious passion she still showed in every branch of magic.

And he couldn't get her eyelashes out of his head.

Damn woman. He would not let her in. He would send her away. A real potioneer never shared his secrets. He groaned – and looked up. And there she stood, her nose almost pressed against his glass door.

He groaned again – but – with another flick of his wand, the door unlocked, unwarded and she smiled. And stepped inside.

"Good evening," she said gently and he closed his eyes quickly.

She was, definitely, a woman. In those robes, he didn't even remember that she had once been his student. In fact, she was the type of woman – physically – he liked.

No. Wrong thoughts. Definitely wrong thoughts.

"Am I on time?" she asked.

"You know very well that you are," he said snarkly. He had to be snarky. Did not want to see her again.

"Good, I'm glad. And you let me in," she smiled and moved towards him. Dark red robes and there were golden streaks in her hair in the light of the candles.

"You would have banged the door in. Especially since Thaddeus Waldhoff is at this moment walking along the street and you, despite your so obviously Gryffindor-nature, would have been scared of him."

She shrugged. "Shouldn't you begin with your preparations?"

She wouldn't even be baited. Not good. Instead, she moved towards him, around the counter and came to stand next to him.

"Oh, look, it's already silver!" she exclaimed as she looked into the cauldron. She was as enthusiastic as her daughter. Even more enthusiastic than Ophelia.

He swallowed. Why was he suddenly so – well, whatever – towards her? She was insufferable. She was annoying, she dumped her children on him.

But to be honest, he had seen a lot of her. And every time he had, there was a new aspect of her that he had not seen before. The loving mother, the fierce, protective woman, the interested, enthusiastic witch. Who looked at him now over her shoulder as she was bent over the counter, and one of the candles shed the light so it showed her lashes perfectly. Long, perfectly shaped.

He shook himself inwardly. This was not happening. Not to him. He was not beginning to feel anything for Hermione Granger except – contempt or annoyance at her. This was not happening.

He pulled the measured unicorn hair from underneath the counter and placed them on the counter.

"Will you cut them now? Do you use scissors or a knife?" she asked quietly, straightening herself and looked in his eyes again.

He couldn't help looking back into hers.

"Silver scissors," he replied, still staring at her and he did not know what was happening to him. And why his voice sounded a little odd.

"Interesting," she said and her voice sounded odd as well and her eyes grew bigger, somehow. Maybe this was a trick of the light of the candles – maybe she was coming closer. He wasn't sure and he wasn't sure why he didn't care.

And he wasn't sure why he wasn't sure. Or why her eyes grew bigger all the time in his line of vision.

He knew he had to focus on the potion. He swallowed and turned his head quickly. To the counter. Away from her face, away from her eyes. Severus Snape cleared his throat – and swallowed – his throat was so dry – and took the silver scissors from a drawer and, ignoring her pineapple-and-thyme-scent, began to cut them into perfect pieces.

_**xx**_


	53. Chapter 53

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

Mummy was standing over her bed and her grin was evil with a lot of teeth and colour, the bright red from her lips, was on them to. She shrunk back and her head banged against the headboard. It hurt but she didn't care when Mummy stretched her arms out towards her.

"No," she whispered in fear and tried to scramble further back, pulled her legs against herself, her nose touching her knees, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood pressed in between legs and chest and Skippy by her side. "No."

"Yes, Fiffi, you can't stay with your father," she spat the word and still grinned evilly. "You will leave with Madame Sylvie."

Madame Sylvie with her very blonde hair and the light blue colour on her eyelids and the too long and too black eyelashes, stepped forward froward from behind Mummy and her grin was just the same. Only the colour on her lips was pink and not red.

"Yes, Fiffi. Your father doesn't want you any more."

"Daddy loves me," she whispered in fear. "Daddy said he will not give me away again."

"Your father lied," Mummy said meanly. "He doesn't love you."

She bit her lip hard and felt a strange taste in her mouth.

"Oh look, Fiffi's bleeding on her lip," Madame Sylvie cackled. "Poor little Fiffi."

She wanted to speak and scream because she thought she heard Mary tottering away in the kitchen, cooking something. Making her breakfast but her mouth was glued shut and she pressed herself more against the headboard.

"And you can try to scream but nobody will hear you. You are mine, Fiffi," Mummy laughed.

"NO!" she finally managed to scream loudly.

And woke up. Her breathing was quick and fast and she couldn't get enough air in her body anyway. It hurt. Her back on the sides hurt very much and she was shivering and was cold and Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood were pressed against her and it hurt to breathe.

She needed to get to Daddy. To Daddy. Quickly, she scrambled from the back, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood safely in her arms and she did not stumble over Skippy who slept in front of her bed, her shell deep grey and ran out of the room but the bed in his room was empty. She tried to breathe better but it didn't work.

And then she remembered. Daddy was downstairs. Daddy was brewing. Or he had left. No. No, he was brewing. He would not leave. He was breathing and Mary Kelly probably was in the living room reading or sleeping.

No, Daddy had not gone.

She bit her lip even harder and there was still the strange taste in her mouth. The same taste that she had tasted when she had cut her finger and had put it in her mouth. But it didn't matter.

Barefoot, she ran towards the door and down the stairs. She didn't care. Her feet weren't cold and she was still shivering but she needed Daddy.

"Daddy" she gasped when she saw his form in the apothecary, at the counter, stirring in something and he turned around quickly.

"Ophelia, what are you..."

"Daddy," she repeated, her breathing still hurting and she lunged herself at his legs and hugged them. Hugged them tightly, held on to her Daddy. When she held his legs, he couldn't go away and it was only a matter of seconds before he said something to someone and had picked her up and held her to him. And the breathing was simpler now but her sides still hurt and she only wanted to hold her Daddy.

xx

The panic-stricken face of his daughter. Another nightmare and he was brewing Felix Felicis. What utter irony. He wasted no second when he saw her, her lip bleeding, a drop of blood running down her chin and he only needed to cast a single glance at Hermione Granger before she pressed herself behind him and the cauldron and took the stirring rod from him.

His little girl was clinging to his legs and to be honest, he didn't even care if Hermione Granger was stirring correctly – his little witch was in a blind panic, and she was bleeding and scared and holding on so tightly that he was sure he would sport bruises on his legs in the morning. But that didn't matter. He bent down, picked her up and hugged her to him.

"Daddy's here, little witch, Daddy's here," he whispered in her ear and rocked her gently. "You don't have to be afraid."

She sobbed and buried her face in his neck but she still felt so tense in his arms and by now, almost strangled him. Didn't matter. Didn't matter.

"Mummy wanted to take me away," she sobbed. "And Madame Sylvie wanted to get me."

"Hush, my girl, nobody's going to take you away," he tried to whisper soothingly.

"Nightmare?" Hermione Granger asked gently over her shoulder, still stirring and he could only nod as his girl was still crying and sobbing into his shoulder. She turned around a little and stroked his girl's back. She only shrunk back a little but when she felt, apparently, that the hand was friendly and only soothing, she let it happen.

"But she said you don't love me," Ophelia hiccuped and clutched at him and he was – grateful – that Hermione Granger turned back to the cauldron.

"You know that it's silly, Ophelia," he explained softly, "You know that I love you."

"But she was so scary," she sobbed again.

"Mister Snape, I could go," Hermione Granger said softly – her face turned towards the counter and not towards him.

"Stir," he said sharply. So what if she heard that he loved his daughter and reassured her when she was so clearly distressed? She was there to help after all. And if that meant stirring for ten minutes, she would have to do it. Despite the fact that Mary sat upstairs, probably, he would not have wanted to her handle this. This consoling was his job as her father. And she needed him. What did he care if Hermione Granger saw this? She would do the same.

"Daddy, don't want to go with Mummy or Madame Sylvie," her hold on his neck and loosened a little and was only occasionally hiccuping.

"You don't have to, little witch. You know that I will not let anyone take you away," he consoled softly and kissed her brow, still rocking her a little as his face fell on her bare feet. He wanted to reach for his wand but as soon as his hand left her back, as long as one of his arms was not around her any more, she began to whimper again. He swallowed and held her again.

"Miss Granger?" he asked.

"Yes?" she turned to look at him again.

"Do you think you can stir and cast a Warming Charm on my daughter's feet?"

She smiled gently, nodded, transferred the stirring rod to her left and with a quick movement of her – elbow, it seemed – she had her wand in her hand and spoke the incantation softly.

"Thank you," he whispered and began to gently stroke Ophelia's back. She nodded – and went back to the stirring.

xx

Her brain was working at triple speed. They had been close to kissing before. And – God – in that candle light, he looked quite handsome. Not that he was revolting in plain daylight, just – different. It made his features much softer then and his eyes had drawn her in and she had noticed a tiny little scar just underneath his eye and his lips suddenly seemed very inviting. If he hadn't turned to his Unicorn hair – oh dear. She didn't even want to think about it.

They had worked in silence after that – she had not dared to look at him again, had not dared to ask questions, had merely looked and stored everything in her memory. He was precise, he was accurat and he wouldn't let her anywhere near that cauldron.

Until his panicky, crying, sobbing, scared daughter ran straight into his legs, her cuddly somewhere discarded on the floor, clutched his legs and she knew that this wasn't enough. She had to take over the stirring, he had to hug his daughter, hold her, console her and without a moment's hesitation, he let her take over the stirring rod and she had brushed against his hand for a moment and if she hadn't been so focused on the potion and if he hadn't been so focused on his little girl, she would have probably noticed how warm his hands were and how gentle he had held the rod.

But as it was, she concentrated on the Felix Felicis with the pale golden colour – but listened to Ophelia and to him. Yes, she had known that he was a kind, good, gentle, loving father – but this was even beyond everything she had thought. Told her sincerely and honestly that he loved her – that everything would be fine. That she did not have to be afraid. And with that kind of voice – a voice that she only noticed now, really, for it's depth and velvety quality and she shivered ever so slightly imagining what that voice might say and what that would do to her. No – this was not the moment to be fantasising about that. Definitely not.

And the poor girl for having a nightmare – and a quite bad one at that, it seemed. Why else should her lip bleed so heavily and why else did Severus Snape seemed to concerned? Mummy? Taking her away? Madame Sylvie? She stroked the girl's back and of course she shrunk back a little at first but she kept her hand gently there and after a moment, she relaxed and Hermione smiled, turned back to the stirring.

And dear – when he asked her to put a Warming Charm on Ophelia – she wasn't sure what to think. He obviously trusted her enough to cast a charm on his girl. His little witch. What a nice pet name for the little one. She smiled – stirred and smiled.

Oh, but what history did that girl have? Severus Snape would probably not tell her but if she was afraid that someone could take her away – that said a lot. And she understood that outburst Ophelia had had when she had been to their house for the first time. She was afraid, deathly afraid, afraid to the point of having nightmares that caused her to make her lip bleed, to lose her father. To be taken away. That said a lot about it – and, as she remembered, Severus Snape had not always had her. She had been living with her mother before. Maybe the mother had not taken good care of her daughter before.

"Where's Ophelia," Mary came running down the steps to the apothecary, breathless, her eyes full of fear.

"Shh," Severus Snape said sharply and turned around and the older woman sighed.

"What happened?" she asked breathlessly.

"Nightmare. Where were you?" he asked snidely.

"In the living room reading," she argued. "And when I went to look for her, she wasn't there."

"Silencing Charm again," he muttered and shifted the girl a little. She had fallen asleep again and Hermione's heart went out to her. She looked so small and vulnerable and he understood Severus Snape's fierce, protective streak.

"I'll take her in her bed again," Mary said quickly and wanted to take her from his arms but he shook his head. "Transfigure something into a cot or a bed. I will not have a repeat of this."

What a man that was. He was willing – to let a beginner stir the most expensive, most difficult potion in the world for his daughter. That much was understandable. But not to let someone else put said child back to bed when she was sleeping again, that was – interesting.

And oddly enough, this man, in the candle light, with his daughter sleeping in his arms, was growing more attractive every minute. So tenderly – and she wished she had kissed him. Just to see if he was handling her with the same gentle tenderness he was handling his little girl and though she continued to stir, she could not take his eyes off Severus Snape and his daughter.

xx

Mary was quick with the cot and he put his girl in it, and she remained, surprisingly, quiet. Usually, she whimpered under those circumstances. Not this time. He had almost forgotten about Hermione Granger still stirring his Felix when he conjured two blankets and a pillow and tucked her in, kissed her forehead and summoned her hellhound which she hugged immediately. He brushed her hair from her face and straightened.

"Mary, I think you can go home. I'll take her upstairs with me later," he said softly and Mary seemed to swallow.

"I'm sorry I didn't hear her."

He shook his head. This was no use. He knew his little girl. She puts up Silencing Charms in her sleep when she has a nightmare and only when she wakes up, she cancels them," he explained.

"I'm still sorry," she said meekly.

"It's fine, Mary. Go to bed, she'll be fine here. And thank you for watching her."

Hermione Granger seemed to stare at him again, over her shoulder. And she blinked. He had thanked her and he had thanked Mary Kelly. Was that so extraordinary? He shook his head inwardly and turned back to his cauldron as soon as Mary had left.

There was silent and he could only hear their breathing. His, Hermione Granger's, Ophelia's. Slowly, he moved next to her and took the stirring rod from her hands. And continued.

"Five more minutes," he said softly and saw her nod with this special Hermione-Granger-in-school-with-her-hand-waving-wanting-to-say-something-really-desperately-expression on her face. "Ask before you explode," he snapped.

"I wasn't going to say anything," she argued.

"As if," he sneered.

"No, really, I wasn't."

"Her mother wasn't the best person in the world but by the time I found out, she was dead and I had Ophelia already," he snapped again.

"You don't have to explain," she said.

"So you'll speculate with whoever comes to mind?" he glared at her but she shook her head.

"I pieced together that her life before she came to you wasn't the best she could have. But..."

He still glared.

"But, Severus Snape," she continued and a small smile was playing on her lips, "I don't doubt that she has the best possible life here with you."

His glared turned into a stare again. And he wasn't sure at all what kind of woman he was dealing with. She truly confused him.

_**xx**_


	54. Chapter 54

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

He stirred with grace and it was clear that he had brewed the potion plenty of times. Seven four-leaf clovers in his left hand, hoovering, for a moment over the bubbling, medium golden, liquid. It almost shed the same light as the candles, glowing, casting another light on his face. Slight stubble on his cheeks and his chin and above his upper lip. Dark eyes focused on the right moment to let the green leaves fall into the concoction. His hooked nose not ugly, she found, but interested. Lips thin and pressed together. Thumb and index finger rubbing gently against one of the four-leaf clover and Hermione wasn't sure what she felt in the moment that she noticed him doing this. It was a slow, circular movement, just two fingers against the leaf. But somehow, she thought, in that moment, it was – enticing. But maybe that was the wrong word. She couldn't think of a better word. But she knew what it was doing to her.

And that wasn't good.

Even though – it had something to do with the entire atmosphere. It wasn't her and it wasn't him. It was the dark, candle-lit room, the glowing liquid in the cauldron, the quietness, the peacefulness. It wasn't him. It was the potion-fumes. And she could not possibly find him attractive. He wasn't the type of man she usually liked.

Though – she wasn't sure what kind of man she usually liked. Had married her first steady boyfriend. Had not gone out after that. Except with Snape.

She turned away, breathed some other air than that fumigated by the scent of the Felix Felicis and closed her eyes, blinked, opened them wide. She wasn't tired, no. She just needed a clear head. Needed to stop fantasising. And needed to remember that there was a child sleeping in a cot just behind them.

She turned back in just the right moment to see him dropping the four-leaf clover in and stirring elegantly.

Elegantly? She had to stop thinking about him using those adverbs. She barely knew the man.

And that, she thought, was why she should be allowed – or allow herself – to think about him using those adverbs. He was a blank page. And she should see him as a blank page.

But could she?

No. Well, yes. But he wasn't a man that she should start feeling even remotely physically attracted to – or – heaven forbid – emotionally. Still – maybe that was just what she needed. A fling without consequences, no strings attached. Maybe, he was the type for that, given that he hadn't seemed to be with Ophelia's mother for long.

A fling...maybe this was really the right way. She never had had one of those before.

But maybe not with Snape. Her children loved his daughter. Those things – flings, affairs – had a tendency, she heard, to make things awkward. But she would go out (yes, yes, she had made that resolution before but had never done – odd though – had had the same thought only when she had been out with Snape), with other people. Men.

Apparently, she had a longing to be with a man – and she was projecting that on Snape. Going out with a nice man – Muggle (no nosy reporters) – get it out of her system for the time being, had some casual sex, and would then stop thinking about Snape in that way.

Easy.

Only...

"You should pay attention," he snapped, "and if you could get me the rabbit's foot from underneath the counter, I have to keep stirring."

She nodded – and it was the old, snarky voice again. It would be simple. She would make sure to go out. With anyone. Not with him. Simple.

She bent down and there lay the rabbit's foot. Complete. With fur. And bones. She knew that there were disgusting things in potions, but this topped almost everything.

"Where do you want it?" she asked – and obviously her disgust showed.

"Too much for Miss Granger?" he sneered and took it from her, keeping it in his left hand.

"No," she shook her head adamantly.

He arched both eyebrows but remained silent.

xx

If he was at least a tiny bit compassionate, he would now feel with her. Such as it was, there wasn't a compassionate bone in his body (for anyone but his Ophelia and to a certain extent, Mary Kelly) and he felt a weird sort of glee when Granger turned pale (even in the pale golden light of the apothecary).

It made her much less attractive.

And well, by now, he had sort of, half-acknowledge, that if he only saw Granger, not the personality, and as long as she kept her mouth shut, she might be considered attractive. In that light. And with her hair up. And in those robes.

Considering it was difficult for her to remain quiet most of the time, and considering that she had a personality, that she had difficulties keeping her mouth shut, and considering that she was not always in that light and was certainly not always in those robes, it was utterly ridiculous that he should find her attractive.

And she wasn't even paying attention to him making the potion. She was off daydreaming, probably. He had to snap – even though he hoped it wasn't waking his little witch.

And then she looked very pale – and the feeling of glee was only short-lived. Sort of. He knew exactly why he always began the potion so he could finish it at night when Ophelia was asleep. The rabbit's foot was rather fresh – from the last full moon, or whenever he could get it. And he had to make the potion almost immediately – but half a day more or less wasn't bad for the rabbit's foot. It was still fresh. And only cut off. The way it was.

And yes, he had done that exactly on purpose. Letting her give it to him. He could have reached down himself, actually. But there was nothing like a pale-greenish Gryffindor.

Well – no. The glee was indeed short-lived. A moment later, he felt that stupid physical attraction that he had never noticed, or acknowledged, before, again. He would make it simple.

There were clearly two possibilities: (a) not seeing Granger again (and that meant either not letting Ophelia see her children again or making sure that only Mary was there when Granger brought her children) or (b) having sex with her once and be done with it.

Which would probably be simpler. But then not. It would probably make things awkward. Though, no. He didn't care. It would make it awkward for her. Not for him. Maybe. Still, if he got over that physical attraction by means of sex, she would probably be the one not wanting to see him again (not because he was bad in bed – but because she would find it weird). And that would help matters with said physical attraction.

He smirked as he dropped the rabbit's foot into the cauldron.

He would ask her out for dinner. A real dinner, not that pub meal. He would pay and that evening would end in a bed. It would be relatively quick, and he would be out before Ophelia even had a chance to miss him.

Despicable. Yes. But this – whatever it was that he was feeling at the moment that she stood next to him couldn't go on. And since his daughter would not allow him to stop all kind of contact to the Grangers, it was the only logical possibility.

And if he invited her to dinner – and made it a few days after that night, and he wasn't feeling that physical attraction towards her any more then, he could still cancel.

It was a nice plan. Not perfect, but he would work on that.

Stirring seven times, he still smirked into the cauldron. He could be kind. He could get sex without having to pay for it.

Right.

He would try. If he felt like it. If he didn't feel like it, he would cancel. Or he would eat and go back home.

Simple.

He extinguished the flame underneath the cauldron quickly and put an Icing Charm on the Felix. It had to be precise. It had to be under 0 within seconds – only then would it get the deep golden, enchanting, enticing colour. And this one – this cauldron full of Felix Felicis was perfect. Despite all the interruptions. Despite Hermione Granger stirring. Despite everything. It was perfect.

One vial would bring him approximately 30 000 Galleons. In the cauldron were exactly 27 vials. 810 000 Galleons. Enough to send Ophelia fully clothed, fully equipped to Hogwarts (no, he hadn't decided on that yet). Enough to built a new apothecary. Enough. And he had found a cross-eyed supplier for rabbit's foot. Could always ask Hagrid about Unicorn hair. Had a dozen jars full of four-leaf clover. Had enough to make plenty more cauldrons full of Felix.

Had had enough in the past.

He wasn't sure how many Galleons there were in his vault at Gringotts. But enough not to ever have to worry about money again.

He smirked.

Maybe – maybe he would give Granger a vial. Just for kicks. And after that, she would surely go out to dinner with him and – in case he decided he had to have her – it would make that simpler.

Oh yes, Ophelia was being taught by the Master Slytherin.

He breathed deeply and summoned 27 vials.

"That's it?" Hermione Granger asked – breathlessly.

"That's it," he replied – and did not sneer. Oh no, he used what Ophelia called the Sirfather-voice. Low, gentle, kind.

"Oh dear," she whispered – and her voice had an incredibly husky quality to it.

Oh yes – he would hear that voice again.

"Yes," he replied and lifted his wand, using it to put the Felix in the vials. He corked them by hand and lined them up perfectly.

"Do you mind if I asked...erm, how..."

"For how much I will sell them?" he asked, and really, he tried but the sneer was in the voice again. "Seeing that nobody else is currently making them _and_ selling them, I think 30 000."

"Thirty...," she stared at the vials. "Those are 27 vials."

"Well," he drawled and instead of looking in her eyes, he looked at the vials and took one. "26," he said gently and wanted to give it to her.

"No," she said sharply. "I can't take that."

She looked in his eyes again and he stared back. Really, he couldn't help it. Her eyelashes were beautiful. And the eyes weren't bad either. Normal. But the lashes...and she blushed.

A pink tinge to her cheeks was attractive. Oh yes, he would make sure that he saw a bit more of that colour. In due time.

xx

He was really offering her a vial of that? 30 000 Galleons worth of potion? 30 000? Did he know how much that was in Pound? Did he?

But – he – he was a Slytherin, wasn't he? Would he give her a vial full of Felix Felicis – a vial worth 30 000 Galleons – without ulterior motives?

Probably not.

But what would he want from her? What could he possibly want from her? There was nothing – nothing – she wasn't willing to give. And she meant nothing.

"I can't take this," she repeated. "It's too much."

"You stirred," he said neutrally. "And this will be sufficient payment."

"I really...what would I do with it?"

"You will find a use," he replied and – suddenly, the vial was in her hand, and his hand around hers, closing her fingers around the cold glass. His eyes fixed hers again in a way that almost made her knees weak (almost!) and she smiled. Sheepishly. Goofily. She wasn't sure.

But yes, she would need to get this out of her system. Casual sex. Simple.

And with the vial – maybe this was the way. Not completely morally correct – but she doubted he would otherwise even consider the idea.

She still smiled at him and nodded. "Thank you," she said and she tried to make her voice sound as seductive as possible. But with so little experience in that field, she doubted it worked – but then, suddenly and without her actually wanting it to, reasonable Hermione kicked in. "What do you want for it?"

She rolled her eyes at herself. This was so typically her – and he, of course, smirked but somehow, his fingers were still around hers.

"Dinner," he said and fixed her with his gaze again.

"Dinner?" she asked and knew that she wasn't looking pretty with her mouth hanging open this way.

"Dinner. Friday," he repeated.

"I, erm, dinner? For the vial of Felix?"

"Are you slow on the uptake?" he smirked.

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, No, I'm not slow on the uptake and yes, I will have dinner with you," she blushed profoundly.

xx

He had clearly achieved his objective. She had said yes, had left the apothecary quickly after that, clearly flustered but she had said yes to dinner on Friday. He had said he would owl her the details, she had apparated from outside and after putting away the vials of Felix Felicis, he had picked up his daughter, had carried her upstairs and had put her to bed.

As he had told her, the confusion was gone.

What made him think about Hermione Granger had been mere physical attraction. And he would get over that.

Simple.

_**xx **_


	55. Chapter 55

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

Her bedroom looked a mess. She looked a mess. And her parents' living room was dark and quiet and her family – fast asleep. Nobody had heard her come in. Nobody had noticed her sneaking upstairs and under a Silencing Charm, taking a long, hot shower.

This plan had gone completely belly-up. And she had thought she had it under control. She thought she was doing the right, the sensible thing.

Apparently not.

Nobody noticed her sneaking downstairs again and gulping down a large glass of brandy before she settled on her parents couch with another glass, her knees drawn up to her nose.

It all came back.

The wonderful restaurant with the delicious food and Snape in the dark Muggle suit, being – not quite himself. Pulling the chair out for her, ordering a bottle of wine, making actual conversation. About the Felix and whether she had taken it already (no, she hadn't) and what she intended to do with it (she wasn't sure she would ever drink it). Asked about her children.

Truth be told, she had been completely happy with that Severus Snape. It had been a date. And by the time the main course arrived, she knew that the physical attraction she felt towards him had to get out. Somehow.

Hence the reason why she now sat in her parents' dark, quiet, eerie living room. Thinking.

Because this had ended where she had wanted it to end. Almost. And probably where he had wanted it to end. That was why he had been nice to her.

And it had been exceptionally good sex. Even if it happened in a hotel room. And even if he left basically immediately after.

It had been – too much. And she knew she had made a mistake in sleeping with him. She was apparently not the type of woman, she knew that now, for a one-night-stand. To be treated like some cheap whore. Hadn't even kissed her – except once. Just moments before it had all exploded into light and colours and – wonder and ecstasy. Had kissed her with a force she had not heard before. And she had realised almost immediately – when she could think clearly again – and lay on her back with him laying next to her but not touching – that she had made a mistake. That he had treated her with the same tenderness as he did Ophelia. It had been by no means rushed – he had focused on her. Had paid attention to her. Had touched her, his lips almost anywhere but her mouth.

She let her head fall back and stared up on the dark ceiling. She had showered, she had brushed her teeth, had washed her hair, had changed into her favourite pair of pyjamas, had pulled on thick woollen socks despite the fact that it wasn't cold by any means. Had only quickly brushed through her wet hair before she had plaited it. But still – she could feel his hands on her and his lips on her breasts and – well.

Hermione sighed softly. It had been wonderful. And that was wrong. It wasn't meant to be. It was meant to be – not so special. It was meant to be a one time thing. And not something she wanted a repeat over and over and over again.

"Oh God," she groaned very quietly. She had clearly made a mistake. And it had felt so right. That was the mistake.

She felt a tingling in her abdomen – the Contraceptive Charm was slowly wearing off. He had taken care of that.

She had never expected him to be so – good at this. So considerate. Though, thinking about it, yes, she had. Even half-stumbling into that hotel room, groping at each other but he had laid her on the bed and had stared at her in her little black dress for a full minute before he got on all fours on the mattress and had approached her like a predator, opening her zip expertly, had touched her back, his sides, had peeled the bra off her before he even allowed her to take off his jacket and tie and shirt.

And somehow, had always turned his head when she had leant up to kiss him.

Only that one kiss – and that still burned on her lips – despite the newest form of toothbrush and the wonderfully spearminty toothpaste.

The evening kept repeating itself in her head. At one time during dinner, she had looked up into his eyes again and it had been as if there was a spark.

And now, after that time in that room, in that strange bed, she was sure there was one. Or – more – a bolt of lightning. And yet, the way he had left after he was done with her made it quite clear that this bolt of lightning had only struck her.

And she had no doubt about this – seeing his face whenever she closed her eyes, coming closer and closer as he was about to kiss her and when he talked to her in the restaurant with the smirk on his face.

Oh, he had been interested. And could still not stop himself from making one or two sarcastic, snarky comments. Highly enjoyable.

The entire evening. Until he had left. Had told her that he would pay. And had left. And now she saw the vial of Felix Felicis in a completely different light. She was, in fact, torn. Torn between knowing that she had probably fallen for the man, and knowing that he had more or less paid her for having sex. And that, naturally, made her feel cheap. Cheap and vulnerable. And confused.

She would make up an excuse. Or plenty of excuses. She could not possibly see that man ever again. The feeling inside of her would pass eventually. Even if she had to force herself to admit again and again that he had paid her for sex.

xx

He had ignored Mary Kelly's smirk, had brusquely sent her away, had looked in on his daughter – sleeping like a little angel – and had sat on his bed. In this damn Muggle suit, the tie only hanging around his neck.

He had made a mistake.

A grave, grave mistake.

This couldn't be happening.

The sex had been exceptional. She had been so passionate, making those noises when he touched her and he knew he shouldn't kiss her. He made it a point never to kiss. Only – he hadn't been able to hold back just moments before –.

He groaned, his head in his hands. This wasn't happening.

He had actually wanted to talk to her. Had enjoyed, despite himself, the conversation and had found her more beautiful every minute, had found her more interesting every passing second. And had been so sure that all of those feelings would vanish once he had had her.

Far from it. Had rolled off her and had wanted to do nothing more than to pull her in his arms again. And this couldn't be happening. Had to leave. Had to flee. A lightning bold had struck him and that was the – worst case scenario.

This was not going as planned. This was not happening. He couldn't be feeling any more for her than mere physical attraction.

Severus groaned again.

She had looked beautiful in that short black dress and the heels and that touch of make-up. And fortunately, she had used that kind of mess that made her lashes longer and blacker but didn't really stick them together. They were beautiful and at one point, he had been close to touch them, run his fingers over them when her eyes had been closed in pleasure. But he had held back. Held back on anything that could make it clear that this was more than a one time occurrence.

She was clearly desperate for some sex. Being divorced for some time. Had probably needed it. And this had been it. Her and him, once. Over. And no, he should not feel more. He was not allowed more.

He had a daughter to take care of. A daughter that needed all his attention. A daughter that still woke up screaming in the night because she had nightmares that he would leave her. A daughter that was possessive. A daughter that needed him. An almost mother figure that needed his attention.

And an apothecary that needed his attention.

And she was not interested in any case. That much was clear. She had not asked one single thing during dinner. He had asked – she had answered and almost lectured. But she had not asked. Had only looked and smiled and looked beautiful but had not asked.

He pushed the thought back that she was probably not asking because she knew she would get no answer.

It was clear that she had gotten what she wanted. And he had gotten what he thought he wanted. But this felt wrong. Empty. Be made a mistake. Clearly.

This had only made it worse. This had not vanished the physical attraction. This had only unsheathed another sort of attraction. Had enjoyed hearing her speak, hearing her talk, seeing her eyes glimmer, seeing her eyelashes move so beautifully. This was not happening. It couldn't be.

The fact remained, however, that he still tasted her on his lips and felt her skin on his fingertips and her fingers on his skin. Felt her entire body on his, under his, heard her moans and the gasps. And heard her breathe 'Severus'.

He shut his eyes tightly – willing the wish away to hold her. To apparate to her home and scoop her up in his arms and kiss her decently. Not that forceful kiss he had to give her. Had to.

But he couldn't. She would probably laugh at him and send him away again.

No. The only solution was to never see her again. He would make up excuses, would lie to Ophelia if he had to. But he needed to get over this. And since sex had not helped – the only other thing that would was to not see her again.

Ophelia would understand – if he did this the right way. He would explain to her that – he would think of something. Or keep her so busy in the apothecary and with her lessons that she had no time to ask after Hugo. No. The Weasley boy.

His life would go back to the way it had been before Granger had wheedled her way in to use him as a quick one night stand and as a babysitter. She could forget about this. The next time, he needed something like this, he would pay for it. That was simpler. And easier. And there were none of those confusing feelings.

Severus touched his lip – and quickly undressed after this – undressed, cast Silencing Charms, and showered for close to half an hour – brushing his teeth for ten. Wanting to stop the wonderful feeling of her so close. Wanting to stop the images that he saw whenever he closed his eyes.

Hermione, leaning up on her elbows to kiss him and him turning his head to kiss her long, slender neck. Hermione smiling during dinner. Hermione with her eyes closed and her mouth in a perfect O. Head thrown back in pleasure.

He tried to scrub those images away.

But he knew only one thing, only one person could help him now. He dried himself and dressed in his usual nightwear, t-shirt and boxers and barefoot, he padded into his little witch's bedroom and sat down on the edge of her bed.

She turned a little – and opened her eyes a crack.

"Hullo Daddy," she whispered sleepily. "I missed you."

He knew – knew – that this was the most important thing in his life. He knew that Ophelia would always come first. And that she was what he had to focus on.

"I missed you too," he whispered and bent down to kiss her forehead.

She wanted to sit up a little to hug him but he shook his head, pushing her back gently and with a little smile playing on his lips, he waved his wand, enlarged the bed and, enlarging her eiderdown as well, he slipped in, glad that he had her.

Glad that he could hold her, that she would let herself be cuddled. That she wrapped her little body around his and fell asleep only moments later with her head on his chest.

This was what was important. This was his life, his entire life. No sense in feeling something more for someone else. This love he felt for his daughter was reciprocated – and would be for the rest of his life.

_**xx**_


	56. Chapter 56

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

He lay sideways, propped up on one elbow, had pushed his hair from his eyes and merely looked for a moment. He loved seeing her sleeping so peacefully, sometimes, when she dreamed, she even seemed to smile – and her lips twitched slightly. She was one of those people who used the entire bed while sleeping. At the moment, she was on her side, facing him, her legs spread out in the bed, one on top of the covers she had otherwise pulled up to her chin, one of her arms extended, her hand touching his stomach without her knowing, the other next to it. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, the light brown contrasting with the white she was lying on. One curl next to the other. It was even more unruly than usual – but maybe that was because of that shower they had taken together the night before – afterwards falling into bed with her hair still wet. And his hair still wet. And the rest of them quite wet.

He absolutely adored those curls. Liked pulling on them and seeing them bounce back.

But his favourite part of her was still – even after all this time – her eyelashes. He leant over and stared at her closed eyes. He couldn't remember how often he had stared at them, analysed them, touched them. Soft, tickling, tingling, wonderful eyelashes.

And he couldn't remember how often he had tried to count them. How often he had bent over just like this, in the early hours of the morning when the rest of the family was asleep and she lay there sleeping. When the children were still in their rooms and he had the time, before they had breakfast and before she went to work and before they could send Hugo to his school and before Ophelia and Rose had their teachers coming in, before Mary came in to watch Zoe, before she went to work and he went to Knockturn Alley to open his apothecary. Those were the minutes, sometimes hours, he loved the most. When she was just his and they were alone and he had time to try and count her eyelashes.

"Are you doing it again?" she grumbled sleepily.

"Go back to sleep," he replied softly. "And don't open your eyes."

She groaned. "Which one?"

"The left one. But don't open them."

She cracked her right eye open and looked at him leaning over her, smiling. "Good morning," she whispered.

"Close them, I said," he argued. "Don't move."

"Can I at least get a good-morning-kiss?" she complained and her eye twitched. It was too late now anyway.

"You moved," he complained.

She opened her eyes and snuggled into him a moment later. "You're weird with your obsession with my eyelashes, Severus," she spoke softly into his chest.

He shook his head and wrapped her tightly in his arms. "I'm not," he whispered. "And I'm not obsessed with your eyelashes."

"Oh but you are," she laughed. "And I don't mind one bit."

He growled and was only silenced when she tipped her head back a little and captured his lips with hers, kissing him gently.

xx

He sat up with a gasp and rubbed the sleep from his eyes – and as much as he wanted to rub his eyeballs, rub the images away, he couldn't. Because – well – he didn't really want to, if he was honest. It had been – the feeling she had evoked in that dream – no. Dreams were one thing. Reality quite another. Two completely different things. And just because he could not forget about her even in his sleep did not mean that he couldn't when he was awake. Occlumency would help. He would push those thoughts back and the warm feeling in his stomach he had thought he felt when she had kissed him in the dream and when she had snuggled in his arms and when she had smiled.

"Daddy?" a timid voice next to him asked.

He closed his eyes for a moment – had awoken, gasping, in his daughter's bed. Where he had gone to sleep the night before. Had had this dream in his daughter's bed. And that alone made it simpler to push those thoughts back.

"Hm?" he asked and turned to her.

"Did you have a nightmare?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"Yes, a little one," he lied and found his little witch in his lap a second later, cuddling him.

"Was it very bad?" she asked concernedly.

"No," he shook his head and kissed her cheek. She sighed, snuggled in closer and he held her there. How would he explain this little one, this being that he loved more than anything in the world that she could not see her best friend any more? How could he do this to her? She who had never done anything wrong, really.

It was him. He had the blame. And he should take all the blame. If he talked to Mary Kelly – not about what had happened – but if he told her that he did not want to see Herm – Granger – any more because the woman was annoying and horrible and he did not long to be exposed to her any longer, she might be able to be persuaded to take his Ophelia there. But only if he couldn't think of anything else. And only if she asked explicitly and he couldn't think of an excuse. Only then.

"Daddy?" she asked quietly and poked his side.

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked back, snapping out of his thoughts.

"Are you still tired? Or sad?"

Sad? No. Definitely not sad. He hadn't been sad in a long long time. Had quite forgotten that feeling altogether.

"No, little witch," he lifted her into his arms and stood up, "I'm not sad and I'm not tired. I'm just thinking."

"About what?" she asked and waved at her tortoise crawling towards the kitchen.

"About a potion for curious little witches," he smirked.

"But I like to be curious," she argued and pulled a face at him, still sitting on his hip.

"And it's wonderful that you're curious," he replied and not a second later, he had images of a curious, curly-haired, brown-eyed grown, know-it-all witch in his head. He took a deep breath and forced a smirk on his face.

"Fine then. No potion for curious little witches," he sat her down on the counter.

"Where's Mary?" his daughter changed the topic.

He didn't know. She had left without saying a word the night before. Only the smirk – sly grin – on her face. That woman could be unnerving with the way she knew things. But he would solve this – simply. Tell Mary (if and only if she asked) that he had had a date with indeed, Hermione Granger, but that that had not gone well, and that that was it. Finished. She was a compassionate woman. She would hopefully understand.

"I don't know, Ophelia," he said gently and began to make breakfast. It was still quite early – and maybe Mary was still asleep. It didn't matter. He would draw strength from his little girl. His solace.

He would take Ophelia down to the apothecary that day – would not let Mary take care of her – and together with Ophelia would experiment on a little something. Forget everything that had happened.

xx

She sat on the kitchen table, cup of tea in front of her. Her mother was making breakfast at the stove, her father next to her, reading the paper. He had been kind enough to bring the children to school and the nursery. Her father had seen that she wasn't well. And her mother had probably seen it as well. No, most likely. She had not cried a lot. Only a little. But enough to have her eyes bloodshot. And she had not really slept. Had not been able to stop the images from appearing in front of her inner eye and had not been able to stop the tingling everywhere he had touched her.

She truly hoped that in the light of day, she would be able to push them back. She would have to think of something to tell her children. And her parents. Though she doubted her parents would accept a lie. Maybe tell them that the date had not gone well.

But coming home so late on a horrible date? Maybe the truth would have to come out. Maybe it would even help her.

At least she wouldn't have to be at Diagon Alley or anywhere near Wizarding London. She would work from home. Had already owled in that she wouldn't be there. No problem.

She sighed louder than she had intended and four eyes were immediately on her.

"Are you ready to talk about it?" her mother asked.

"Jude, stop being so nosy. Hermione will tell us when she's ready," her father interrupted.

"No, Dad, no. It's maybe better if – I tell you," she said slowly.

"What happened last night? I didn't hea..."

"Jude...," her father said threateningly. "Let her talk."

"I came in late. I came in at about 2, I think," she began. "And before you ask, Mum, the date went well."

"Is that why you're crying? And have been crying? And why the brandy..."

"Jude!"

"It went well but it was clear by the end of the evening that he and I did not want the same things. And that was why I cried, and why I drank two or three glasses of brandy and why I didn't sleep."

There. She wouldn't tell them more. A good enough date could last until two in the morning. And it would make sense – more or less – to explain that she had fallen in lo... – that she felt something more for him – and he did not want the same things. That he wanted – ah – if she told her parents that he had only wanted a quick shag, she could more or less explain by that too, why she didn't want her children to see his daughter again. The sins of the father...

No, that was probably unfair. And to be honest, she had not told her parents with whom she had gone out. And she could always contact Mary Kelly and tell her to pick up her children or bring Ophelia to them if they wanted to play together.

Still, it didn't matter. Didn't matter at all. Her father had his arm around her shoulder and had drawn her to him – and her mother had pulled the skillet from the cooker and had moved next to her, her hand on her thigh, the other stroking her hair.

"My poor girl," her mother whispered gently and kissed her cheek. "Maybe he will find out what a lovely woman you are."

"Exactly," her father added but she only shook her head and new tears began welling in her eyes. She hated to cry. Especially under those circumstances but she couldn't help it – and yes, she felt a tiny bit entitled to the tears. She had been used and that was enough for a good cry. Especially since she felt more for him. She buried her face in her father's shoulder and pitied herself for a while.

She would just cry a bit, then throw herself into her work. Would then forget about it. About the entire thing. Forget about Severus Snape.

_**xx**_


	57. Chapter 57

**_The usual disclaimers apply._**

**_xx _**

_Snape,_

_I don't want this. I'm not a prostitute you can pay for having sex. _

_Granger_

She signed her name with a flourish. Sending the Felix back. She had no need for it. She was lucky enough with her children and her parents and all of them, knowingly or unknowingly, supporting her. She had a job she liked. And she was more or less content with the way things were going.

The builders had come in immediately after she had spent that night with Snape and had begun to build the annexe. She wouldn't have minded using magic – not at all – but she was rather wary of Confunding all the neighbours. So it meant dirty, rude men with too low sitting trousers with things visible she had no intention of seeing in strange men, it meant loud yells but it always meant a bedroom each for Rose and Hugo, a larger bedroom for herself, a larger kitchen for her parents and herself – and, - wonderful! – another bathroom!

A week since they had started. A week during which Hugo had whined a little to see Ophelia. A week during which Rosie had whined a little to see Uncle Snape.

She had not reacted well to that – had snapped at her daughter and had forbidden her to call him that. Had made her daughter cry. And that was when her father had given her the first knowing look. But he had not said anything.

As a matter of fact, she still waited for him to say something. Not that she cared. It was over. He wasn't interested and now was the right moment to send the Felix back. The owl was safely away – until she called her. She certainly didn't want to her daughter or her son to send missives to people she did not want contact to at the moment.

Yes, it was unfair, she knew. And maybe, eventually, she would owl Mary Kelly. But so far, she didn't want to. So far, she only managed to wrap the vial of Felix Felicis in brown, heavy paper, put it in a little box, put the note on top and whistled.

She knew it was a bit late. But better late than never – she thought and with a sigh, sealed the box. She wished that she had been able to send it back sooner now. He would see through it – especially with the note – but so what? No, she didn't care any more. She was over it, she wasn't feeling anything for him any more, and this was only the last step.

It was a fact, yes, that she had another date that following day. With a nice Muggle she had met in a book store. From her home town. Pete. Accountant. Never married, no children. Apparently, his mother went to her mother to get her teeth seen to and he went to her father. What a weird thought.

But – after they had met the second time in the book store, he had asked her out – and she hadn't hesitated to say yes. But she would not make the same mistake again. Whatever happened – she would not sleep with Pete. Not that she found him in any way attractive. He had blonde highlights, for Merlin's sake. And apparently plucked his eyebrows. And probably used mascara on his lashes. And she bet her went to the gym at least four times a week.

Not her type of man. Not that she was sure any more what her type of man was. Whenever she had one of those dreams in the night, that leading man was faceless – but had Snape's body and kissed like Snape. And did the rest like Snape.

But – she was looking forward to a night out. Looked forward to getting pretty. And well, it was not what she usually did – but she would take hours to get ready. Would even go to get her hair done. And she was doing this for herself – there was no other reason.

With a little smile, she sent the owl off. This would end it. End what never had been anything.

And she would go shopping now. That would help. She needed a dress to go out with Pete.

xx

"Daddy!" Ophelia had discovered the owl sitting patiently at the window outside while she was doiong sums in the kitchen as Mary baked a few scones. And she had given her the difficult task of converting the recipe which was for ten scones into a recipe for twenty scones. It was fun. Especially as Mary waited patiently until she was ready. But the owl was out there and she needed to tell her Daddy. No matter if Mary was there. Daddy always said that he was the one to check owls. Not Mary.

So, she had shot Mary a look and when she smiled, she darted off, down the stairs.

"Daddy!" she cried again and ran straight into his legs. "There's an owl upstairs."

He turned around and picked her up – and she kissed her Daddy when she sat on his hip and had her arms flung around his neck. It was her very favourite place on earth – no. Not quite. The second most favourite place in the world. Her most favourite place in the world was snuggling with her Daddy when he slept in her bed or she in his. And when she could put her head on his chest. That was the best place on earth.

"Daddy, there's an owl," she repeated in his ear.

"Aren't you a curious little witch," he smirked. "I think I will have to brew a potion for curious little witches."

"No, Daddy!" she shrieked. He always said that. And it was mean. Curious was good. He often said so himself. He had often let her help with new potions and they had developed something which helped her look into the bathwater when she was in the tub and when Daddy was in a really good mood, he even enlarged the tub, and would put some fish in there. So she could look. And the potion stopped her eyes from burning. Both in there, and when they went to the pool. He tried to take her at least every other week and she could really swim now! Which was really, really neat.

And apparently they were now working on something else. But Daddy didn't help her and today, he had told her to go upstairs and do some lessons with Mary. She liked lessons with Mary – but she loved being with Daddy in the apothecary.

She missed Hugo and Rose though. They had not once come over in over a week and she really wanted to play with Hugo and help Daddy brew with Rose. She had even asked Daddy about it. But Daddy only ever said that they were very busy with the potions and then he let her brew and somehow, she sometimes even forgot to ask more about it. Because she was so focused on the potions.

"Daddy, the owl! Maybe it's from Hugo or Rose. It's their owl, I think," she explained impatiently. It sort of looked like it but then again, most owls looked alike. But it did look like it. And maybe she shouldn't have said that. Because Daddy had that weird expression on his face and, pointing his wand at the door, he hurried upstairs with her still in his arms.

Lately, Daddy could be weird. Not all the time but when she talked about Hugo and Rosie and Hugo's Mummy. Then he got that look on his face and she wasn't quite sure what it meant. The first time that she didn't know exactly what it meant.

He stormed into the kitchen – and Mary looked just as puzzled as she felt. He set Ophelia on her feet and opened the window immediately.

It really looked like Hugo's Mummy's owl. She squinted when the owl settled on the kitchen table and Mary gave it a bit of scone-dough and Daddy pulled a box from the owl's leg.

"Is it Hugo's Mummy's owl?" she asked quietly and settled on a chair but Daddy didn't answer. He had opened the little wooden box with his wand and his face changed. She couldn't say how exactly but his eyes were a little different. A bit warmer maybe? And hurt. It seemed he was a little hurt. Really odd.

"Is something wrong, Daddy?" she asked timidly and moved to his side – leaned against his leg and put her chin on his upper thigh.

And suddenly, she felt something moving and there was a whoosh and when she looked up, she only saw a vial of something clattering against the opposite wall of the kitchen.

"Severus!" Mary said sharply and stood behind them. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing," he said in a very, very angry voice and Ophelia took a step back. She had never seen her Daddy so angry and he had never before run off like this. In a flash, he was out of the kitchen and the door banged and she heard him stomping down the stairs.

"What's wrong with Daddy?" Ophelia asked softly, looking at Mary Kelly. She tried very hard not to cry but Daddy had scared her. He had thrown a vial of potion over her head and had run off. Mary hugged her for a moment, picked her up, but then, she saw something.

But it seemed, in his hurry he had forgotten something and Mary set her back on the floor, picked the note up and settled on a chair, her arm around Ophelia's shoulder. She craned her neck and tried to read what was on the note – but she was too little.

She huffed. Sometimes, it was really unfair to be little.

xx

_Snape,_

_I don't want this. I'm not a prostitute you can pay for having sex. _

_Granger_

Mary sighed. So it had been Hermione he had met. Up until now, he had refused to talk about it – even though she had, once in a while, asked, probed. But he only said that things had gone not as planned. Nothing more, nothing less.

And now this note? It made things quite clear. Apparently, they had slept together and he had given her the vial he had thrown against the wall – either before or after. She sighed again and as she stood up, she folded the note and put it in her pocket. This was nothing for little witch's eyes. Definitely not. She wouldn't understand it anyway.

Slowly, she walked towards the spot where the liquid from the potion pooled on the ground. She bent down and groaned.

"Mary?" Ophelia asked quietly and moved to her side.

"Hey sweetheart. What do you think this potion is?" she asked – even though she knew the answer and she was close to running down into the apothecary and boxing his ears. The stupid, stupid, stupid boy! Giving Hermione a vial full of Felix Felicis and then sleeping with her? Of course the woman would think he was paying her. The stupid boy. Honestly. How daft could a man get?

And the way she saw it – he hadn't even meant it. He was miserable. And clearly Hermione was devastated as well. This box was a week after whatever it had been that had happened (apart from the one thing) and it was forcedly angry.

She was a moment too late. Ophelia smiled at her – then bent down to look at the potion again. "That's Felix Felicis," Ophelia said happily and before Mary could pull her away – Ophelia had stuck her finger into the pool of golden liquid and the finger into her mouth.

"Ophelia!" she cried but was only met by a smiling, happy face.

"I think I want to see Hugo and Rosie," Ophelia stated, grinning – and was about to put her finger into the liquid again – but was pulled back just in time.

"That was enough!" Mary said and held her by his side. Ophelia was a thin, young girl. Had put her entire finger in the Felix. That was enough to last her more than a day. And she had no idea why Ophelia wanted to see her little friends now. But she had taken Felix after all.

Mary sighed, picked the girl up again, and quickly scribbled a note that they were out, and with her eyes closed, she concentrated on the Granger's front door.

xx

Him. Him treating her like a prostitute. Definitely not. She had helped with the bloody potion. She had a right to get the vial. And to see it as payment? Did she honestly think that he would pay so much money for one night? She had been good – but not that good.

_Snape,_

_I don't want this. I'm not a prostitute you can pay for having sex. _

_Granger_

Dunderheaded woman. Did really think he would pay her. Stupid woman. Stupid, stupid, stupid woman. But this clearly showed what she thought of him.

He paced around his apothecary. Clearly, she had never changed her opinion of him. Still thought of him as so despicable to pay her.

Not that it was so far off – he did pay women to have sex with them. But not her! She had helped brewing. This was for her brewing the potion. And for her going out to dinner with him – not to sleep with him. He would have given it to her afterwards if that had been the case.

He shook his head. She had the right opinion. It was clear that – no – nothing was clear any more.

Only – he had scared his girl. Had run out on his little witch who had leant on him. And that wasn't right. He had been a complete idiot. A complete and utter idiot.

He walked slowly up the stairs again – had to apologise to Mary and Ophelia. Had to explain that he had been too rash and had not thought clearly and that he was sorry.

Idiot.

He stepped into the kitchen, ready to hug his daughter – and if he had to – Mary, when he only saw a note on the table.

_Gone out for a bit of shopping_

_Mary and Ophelia_

He bit his lip. Now those two had left him as well. He put his head in his hands, sitting at the kitchen table.

xx

The doorbell rang and Hugo ran towards it. He had no idea who it could be but Rosie had stupidly burned her fingers on the stove (sometimes, she could be really smart – but sometimes she was just too dumb to know that it was hot when grandma cooked!) and grandma and grandpa were looking at it and consoling her and maybe it was better that he could get out of the kitchen because otherwise he might have laughed at Rosie. Only her sister could be so stupid!

He flung the door open and let out a yelp of joy. "Ophelia!" he cried and hugged his best friend.

_**xx **_

**Jackie_: I really wanted to PM or email – but since you posted anonymously, I have to do it here (no worries!): I might be odd, really, but I do think about what I see in dreams. Is that abnormal? I usually, in my dreams, always know if what I do is normal or not, or if I done that before. I had no idea it wasn't normal and I feel kind of weird now._**_**Thank you for your nice compliments but I have to tell you (and I feel weird about that as well), that I have never taken a writing class and I do not plan my writing. To be honest – I sit down in the evenings and just write. There is no plan! I know where this will end and if I'm really lucky, I think about the chapter during the day, but nothing more. **_

_**For all of you: I am NOT American (hence, I do not celebrate Thanksgiving), and I'm NOT British. I'm European, German to be precise. I am very glad that some of you still don't believe me when I say that I'm not a native speaker of English (actually, I started learning it aged 11).**_

_**Alright. I think that's all for now. **_

_**Thanks and please review!**_


	58. Chapter 58

_**The usual disclaimers apply**_

_**xx**_

_**Quote from a British TV show (which everyone everywhere should know!) below. Find it → Dedication!**_

_**xx**_

Mary doubted that she even wanted to know what the three children, putting their heads together, all three of them kneeling on the floor, talked about. Or what Felix talked about. And why she had really wanted to come back here. With Felix in her system. She didn't understand but she was glad – glad that she had the chance now to have a word or two for with Hermione's parents.

They had ushered them in, had all gone into the living room (there were dirty, rude people in the kitchen who apparently build something – something like an annexe) and Judith Granger had made tea and had brought biscuits and Jonathan Granger had sat there, looking at her.

She wasn't sure what to tell them, especially not since the children were so close, plotting it seemed. However, Mary trusted in Felix Felicis. She wasn't living under a potioneer's roof for nothing. Had earned an O in her NEWTs in Potions. But she had never told him that. There was absolutely no need for it.

But Mary knew that – if she found out how Hermione really felt – she and the Grangers would be able to help those two daft children. Honestly – children. Severus was probably now sitting somewhere being even more miserable as soon as he had stopped being angry. And she did not doubt for a moment that he was not angry any more. He was usually not that dim-witted. And understood when he had made a mistake. And he had made not only one – but two.

Giving Hermione the Felix as payment – and shoving his daughter away and throwing the vial against the wall (really – how full of cliché was that in any case?).

But the question was really – how much did they know?

"How is Hermione? Is she at home?" she asked curiously.

Judith Granger shook her head. "She's gone out to buy new clothes. She has a date tomorrow," she explained – but Mary had taken her eyes off the woman – and look at Jonathan Granger who groaned.

"Oh?" she asked – still looking at the man.

"Peter Longfellow. Accountant. I think the public opinion of him here is that he is not fishing this side of the lake," he shook his head.

"Excuse me?" Mary asked.

"Not interested in women," Judith Granger explained.

"Oh," Mary nodded, grinning slightly. "And Hermione's..."

"After that disaster with whoever it was last week, I'm not sure it's wise she's going out with the only gay in the village and will be disappointed again."

"John!" Judith Granger poked his side. "Quiet. Children," she hissed and pointed at the children sitting in a circle on the ground. Mary wasn't sure she should have told them about the potion Ophelia had taken. And that Ophelia knew instinctively what she was doing. Not that Mary knew what she was doing. But still.

"Ophelia? Rosie? Hugo? "Judith Granger continued, ""Would you go outside and play there for a while?"

xx

Ophelia knew just what to do. She knew what was right and what was wrong. And telling Rosie and Hugo that it was best to get her Daddy and their Mummy to talk was the best. She didn't know why to be honest – but she knew she had to try this. Had to talk to Rosie and Hugo and together, they could make each of their parents go somewhere at the same time.

No – she really didn't know why she should do it. But to be honest – sometimes, she sat in her chair in the corner of the apothecary, or she was helping Mary in the kitchen, and just fantasised. Fantasised how nice it would be to have a complete family. Daddy and a Mummy who really loved her and did not always push her away and Mary as a grandma and maybe even a brother and sister. Or both. And to be completely honest, the potion said that having those two as siblings and their grandma and grandpa as grandparents and Hugo's Mummy as her Mummy would not be too bad.

Better than her own Mummy.

But well – she wasn't really sure. She wanted to keep Daddy to herself on the one hand. On the other hand – maybe it would be nice to have both Daddy and a Mummy and someone to play with all the time.

Be that as it may, the potion made her tell Rose and Hugo that she thought her Daddy and Mummy should meet again.

And they were plotting. Plotting was one of her favourite things to do. Apart from brewing and doing things with Mary and reading and other things. But sometimes, Daddy plotted with her (it was never this big – most of the time, they were just plotting how to get Mary to cook something lovely to cook for them) and that was really, really wonderful! Daddy was a major plotter and she was his girl, his little witch. She could do just as well.

It didn't matter that Hugo's and Rosie's grandparents told them to go outside. Whether they sat in the living room or on the grass outside – they still had not quite figured it out yet.

"Daddy doesn't really like diagonally," she huffed.

"Diagon Alley," Rose corrected her.

"Diagon Alley," she repeated, shaking her head. "He still doesn't like it."

"And Mummy doesn't like where you live."

"But where I live is nice," she explained. She scratched her head and curled a strand of hair around her finger. "And Daddy doesn't let me write letters on my own any more and I can't call the owl any more."

"Mummy put the owl away," Hugo shook his head. "She's so mean."

Ophelia nodded compassionately. She could understand that very well. Daddy didn't allow her to go anywhere near any owl any more. Not even their own. And whenever she was drawing anything or writing anything, he was always looking over her shoulder. She didn't understand why, really.

"I really want to brew with your Daddy again," Rosie said with a sigh.

"You will if we get your Mummy and my Daddy to talk," Ophelia answered with absolute certainty. Felix knew.

"How do you know?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I just know."

Hugo and Rosie seemed to accept it and she smiled. The potion had just had another idea and had put that in her head. And it was just a wonderful, perfect, plotter-idea. Nobody could ever see through it.

"Does your Mummy ever take you swimming?" she asked with a smirk.

xx

"What do you mean, it was Severus Snape?" he asked with puzzlement written all over his face.

Mary Kelly – the woman that would most certainly know – nodded and he couldn't help taking his wife's hand. Jude seemed just as surprised as he was. She had gone out with Severus Snape and had come home heartbroken? Almost impossible. He was a good man. A very good man and he had never thought he was able to break his girl's heart.

"Yes, and he's miserable about it. Apparently, the way I see it, the date did not go as planned," she added quickly. He couldn't honestly say that it put all of his doubts to rest – but she did seem genuine.

"And what makes you think that?" Jude asked her.

"I just know," she shrugged a little, "I can't say that he's treated Ophelia differently, apart from earlier, but he only listens to her, he doesn't talk to me and he told me that he had a date which did not go as planned. He's miserable and I think – I just think, mind – that he had developed feelings for your Hermione."

He just sat, his open mouth covered by his hand – his other hand covered by his Jude's. "Do you mean that?"

She sighed. "I think he believes that your Hermione isn't as interested in him as he is in her. He just was very quiet lately and it started that night of the date."

"Hermione's been miserable since. She said that he did not want the same things she wanted. We think that she fell in love with that man – or had developed feelings for this man and that he did not want a relationship," he explained calmly.

Jude groaned. "And you're sure it could be Severus Snape?"

Mary Kelly nodded vehemently. "Yes," she answered assuredly.

"Why?"

"I just do," she explained – and he knew there was something she was hiding – but he let it go. It would make sense. She had been giddy about meeting Snape beforehand – and she had been just as giddy before that – and very heartbroken. She would not be if she didn't care about the date. And she had certainly cared about Snape.

And still – he needed to have a word or two with Snape. Nobody was breaking his girl's heart. No matter if it was just a misunderstanding or not. He didn't care. He had thought Snape was a good man – but making his girl miserable, sad? No. That was not on. Nobody was allowed that. Even if he had thought he would make the perfect man for Hermione. Definitely not any more.

"John?" Jude gently lay her hand on his thigh. "Stop plotting how to kill the man. The entire matter was probably just a misunderstanding and they both have feelings for one another. That was just what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"No, this wasn't what I wanted," he huffed.

Mary Kelly smiled at him. "I always thought Hermione and Severus would go well together."

xx

Hugo grinned proudly at his best friend and his sister. It was his task now to make his mother take them swimming. It wouldn't be too difficult, he thought – especially since they had found out where Ophelia and her Daddy went swimming and that that wasn't far away from where they lived. What a coincidence!

He knew that Rosie really wanted to have a sort of Daddy like Ophelia's Daddy. He wasn't so sure yet. He liked Ophelia's Daddy well enough but he missed his own Daddy – no, Dad, as he insisted – very much. But every time, Daddy picked them up, he only seemed to talk to Rose and not to him. He knew it was because of the fact that he can't do magic. And this hurt. But Mummy made it all better.

And Ophelia's Daddy never minded. Ophelia's Daddy always was just as nice to Rose as he was to him. Maybe it was better for him to want Ophelia's Daddy like her own Daddy. And they could only do that when the two of them met. And while they were swimming, it would be perfect!

He still grinned happily and Ophelia and leant against her shoulder.

Having Ophelia as another sister would be brilliant, too!

xx

"We will stay in touch?" Mary Kelly asked, a glint of something in her eyes. Judith Granger wasn't sure she liked playing matchmaker – but it seemed after a while, John was convinced that Hermione and Severus Snape were just being idiots and really belonged together – and she would just play along. She supposed. Or she would try.

She would, most certainly, not say anything to her daughter. She would also make sure that those two didn't rush the bloody matchmaking. How ever they wanted to do it. She – and probably them – didn't know how to do it, exactly. She shrugged to herself and decided to wait. Wait until there was an opportunity. An opportunity to what – she wasn't sure.

_**xx**_


	59. Chapter 59

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

_**Dedicated to:**_

_**Lauri4Snape **_

_**twentysplenty **_

_**People – watch Little Britain!**_

_**xx**_

He couldn't quite understand why she insisted on going swimming with him. Well – it was Wednesday but after all, she had been a little angry with him (rightly so), after running from her the day before yesterday. But she had returned from wherever she had been with Mary (and Mary was an Occlumens – who knew?) and had ignored him for a while, had kissed him good night, had him read a bit of a story and had not really changed the day after that. Only – that Wednesday, she had been clingy again and sitting on his lap during breakfast and she had been adamant on going swimming. That afternoon. And he had no idea why. Yes, she loved going swimming, she loved to swim a little, loved to splash around, loved to hang on to him and have him swim with her. She loved being with her Daddy, loved splashing him with cold water when he was enjoying the hot shower before their swim. She loved, usually, to be with him at the pool.

And so she insisted and though he had felt a tickling in his throat that morning – usually the beginning of a cold – he had chucked a potion and had packed their things (her black swimsuit and his black swim trunks – long enough to hide his wand in – though he had learned to cast a decent warming charm before they entered the cold water – towels, shampoo, soap, comb for her hair) and was almost ready to go.

But she was so giddy. Much giddier than her usual giddiness before swimming and he was – a Slytherin after all – a tiny bit suspicious. Just a little. But then again – what could she plot going to the pool?

He sighed. As long as she had forgiven him – it was fine.

No – she smiled at him and raised her arms to be picked up. And when he did – she pressed a kiss on his cheek and buried her face in his neck and let herself be apparated away – though she really, really disliked it.

It was fine though. The area before the swimming pool was empty of people – as ever. There was nobody at all and why did he look around at all? It was just Ophelia and him. And his little witch was happy that he was still the same – the same who tucked her in, the same who almost told her that he loved her and the same who read to her and the same who let her sit on his lap during breakfast when she wanted to. She wasn't as Slytherin as he wanted her to be. She was just – after all was said and done – an amazing little girl. A lovely little girl. His lovely, beautiful, little witch. The most important person in his life. The one he never wanted to lose – even if he was afraid of losing himself and even if he lost every other person. Even if he lost everything in his life – he still had her. And she was all the Light and all the Happiness he needed. And he trusted her.

"Daddy?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked back – gently.

"Is apparating ever not icky?"

He almost laughed but of course didn't and kissed her head. "No, my little witch."

She groaned quietly and snuggled her face into his neck. She liked doing it – especially after apparating but really any time. It was just his little witch and no Hermione Granger in the world could ever compete with the feeling that this little girl was evoking in him. She was just His.

"Ready?" he asked and when he felt her nod – he walked inside the swimming pool.

xx

She raised her eyebrows. "Where do you want to go?"

"The swimming pool," her children said in unison.

"Now?"

They both nodded vigorously. "You never wanted to go swimming before," she mused but both of them were – adamant. Really truly adamant.

Rosie, her good girl, had even done some research beforehand, using her grandparents' computer. And she had made a list – and top of the list was the swimming pool in the neighbouring town. And why shouldn't she go to a public pool with her children? Both of them were not really good swimmers and at least Rosie would be in contact with the Black Lake eventually. And who knew what Hugo would encounter in his life. Oxford? Cambridge? Rowing? Swimming and water wasn't that bad. No, it would be quite a nice way to spend the afternoon – especially after she had almost thrown her mobile phone on the wall when Pete had texted her, postponing the 'date' until Friday. And it was only Wednesday. Not that she really wanted to go out with him especially, but – to cancel it on such short notice? Nobody was doing this to her. Not even Snape had done it.

So – yes, she could really use the distraction. To be honest.

She sighed deeply. "Fine," she said suddenly looked at her children. "Go get your bathing suits."

xx

If truth be told, she loved standing under the hot shower in her Daddy's arms. Daddy always held her tightly and it hadn't been easy being angry with him before. But it all had to be done. And really, after she had come back from Rosie and Hugo's, she hadn't been angry any more. But he looked as if she should be. And she tried. It was all part of the cover.

It was her job to make sure Daddy was distracted and Daddy didn't see Hugo's Mummy and Hugo and Rosie coming in to the pool. The potion had said so. The potion knew it would be best if Daddy and Hugo's Mummy met. Maybe this meant that Hugo's Mummy would be her Mummy soon too. And that her Daddy would be Rosie and Hugo's Daddy too. And Ophelia had learned enough from her father to trust the potion.

And of course Daddy would never hold anyone the way he held her. Daddy loved her. She knew that. And Felix had explained it as well. She knew.

"I love you, Daddy," she whispered in his ear under the hot spray of water. And he sort of tightened his grip on her and kissed her temple the way he always did and hugged her really really tight and he didn't say anything.

But she knew he loved her. Even if he would become Rosie and Hugo's Daddy – she just knew that she would always be his only little witch. His girl. She knew. She kissed him back and hoped that he wasn't too angry when he saw through her plan.

xx

It was a normal swimming pool. Average. It was clean, yes, and the water from the showers was hot but she wasn't sure why Rosie had put this on top of her list of the best swimming pools in the area. Maybe the pool was perfect – she wasn't sure yet. Both her children had just taken her hand – Rosie on the right, Hugo on the left and both of them made sure to chatter and to tell her how happy they were to be there. She wore her one-piece green bathing suit – a little tight around the stomach and hips (when had she last been swimming? And she hadn't really been sure how much Extension Charms she could cast on the fabric) but there were only a few older people in the pool – and a father with a little girl, splashing around.

But it was Hugo, chattering again, who had her attention immediately. She was truly amazed by how much Hugo wanted to know. How the water got in there – how they kept it clean and how they kept it smelling this strangely. And how swimming really worked.

It was usually Rosie that asked those questions – but this time Hugo? She didn't care. She loved both her children for their curiousness and she held on tightly totheir hands as they stepped into the water.

The father with his daughter turned around. Slowly. And she thought her heart would stop.

xx

No.

No.

No.

He wasn't over what had happened. Or he was over it but the sight of her in a green bathing suit – with her cleavage so clearly visible and him – knowing what lay beneath the fabric – it was too much.

He made the connection quickly.

Ophelia. Ophelia.

That was why she had been so adamant on going.

And Hermione's children. Grinning.

"Ophelia?" he asked quietly – even as the Weasley children dragged their mother close to were they where playing.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," his little witch said immediately and he didn't understand. But he saw the blush on Hermione's cheeks and he was reminded off...

And she was just in front of him and she looked at him and was still bright red. And he knew that he had to do something. He couldn't just go. He had been there first. With his little witch. Even if he was angry with her. A little. Or not. He was confused and he wasn't sure. But he didn't want her to be there because he saw her in all of this – and so little clothing and Ophelia had distracted him and...

"Sev...erm, Snape," she said sharply as she came closer – her children dog-paddling, holding on to her, a bit of swimming.

"Miss Granger," he knew he only had one chance now. He had to. He just had to.

He sneered and for a moment – for a moment only – covered his daughter's ears and Hermione seemed dumbstruck and only stared. "Embarrassed?" he asked, low and soft, "Why, Miss Granger, I think you've seen me in less clothing," he added – smirked and sneered and was glad that somehow, he stopped thinking of her that way.

Maybe.

_**xx**_


	60. Chapter 60

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx**_

It took her a moment to get her bearings. Especially since Hugo poked her in the side and both her children stared at her. She pulled her wand from where it stuck on the side of her bathing suit (yes, yes, it looked odd – but nobody could really expect her to go swimming without a wand, could they?) and under the water, cast Muffliato on her children and Ophelia.

Simultaneously, all three children began putting their fingers into their ears – and moving their heads from side quickly – trying to get the water (which was not really in there) out.

"You tell me to stop staring? You tell me? Take your eyes off my breasts then. You've seen them close up, as far as I remember," she snapped.

"Cancel the spell on my daughter," he hissed, moving closer to her in the water. "Nobody casts a spell on my child."

She shook her head. This man was impossible. To ever think that she had sort of fancied him. That she had _cried_ because of him – incredible. But then he did this thing with his eyes again – they wandered from her hips – immersed in water, over her stomach and her breasts and up her neck and her lips and to her eyes and he seemed to be completely focused on her eyes. And they were standing close to each other again and the children – Hugo was still holding onto her lleft arm – but Rosie had paddled to Ophelia who sat on her father's hip but tried to wriggle free. Se – Snape – held her tightly, however, and if he hadn't been so focused on her eyes – she supposed he would have scowled down on Rose.

Her daughter, however, was nonplussed. Still trying to shake the supposed water from her ears, she grasped his arm (Hermione supposed the water was shallow enough for her to stand and not have her head under water if she stood on her tiptoes but maybe she wanted to hold on to him) and it seemed, reflexively, he raised his arm a little, gave Rosie more room to hold on to.

And Rose spoke. She heard her – that was the way Muffliato worked but Rosie wouldn't hear herself – except inside her head – and that made her voice sound a little odd. And – it made him drag his eyes away – and she was happy that she wasn't pierced with his dark gaze any more. Especially since those eyes reminded her why she had cried because of him. And why she had wanted him in the first place. And why she – no, why some part of her – still wanted him.

And honest – when she saw him scowling down at Rosie – but at the same time made sure that she wasn't drowning, it was – endearing.

"Cancel. The. Spell. On. My. Daughter," he repeated but his voice sounded much less threatening than it had before.

"Uncle Snape?" Rosie asked in that strange voice, and inwardly, Hermione wasn't sure whether she should cringe or not. Uncle Snape. And the man still scowled.

"Cancel the spell so I can explain to your daughter that I'm not to be addressed as such," he said.

"Cancel it yourself," she shrugged and cuddled Hugo – and noticed that Sever – no, Snape's eyes flitted from his daughter – to her daughter – to her eyes – to her cleavage.

"And how am I supposed to do that when I have to keep your daughter from drowning?" he hissed back and arched an elegant eyebrow. And stared into her eyes.

She arched an eyebrow back and loosened Hugo's grip on her neck. And she stared back at him as Ophelia clung to her father, the side of her head nestled comfortably against his shoulder and collarbone, and as Rosie tread water holding onto his arm.

An elderly woman – she noticed in her peripheral vision – swam, duck-like, past them, muttering something about swimming, not flirting in the pool. But trouble was – she couldn't stop looking.

And she knew that no Pete in the world could stop her from seeing those images inside her head again and again and could stop her from remembering what he had felt like. And she remembered clearly, why she had thought that she felt something for him. Something more.

And – it seemed he wasn't despising her as much as she thought he was. His features had softened – and his stare was almost – almost – gentle. And his eyes different. Not cold. And not unfeeling. But something was odd.

xx

She – she looked gorgeous. Her hair wet and clinging to her back and her shoulders and her breasts only covered by the Slytherin-green of her bathing suit – showing lovely cleavage and he knew he was even holding onto Rose Weasley and helped her tread the water and he held Ophelia and stared at her eyes – and her lashes and there was a drop of water clinging to her lashes and her son was clinging to her and Rose Weasley seemed to ask him something and Ophelia had apparently given up on stopping the weird noise in her ears and had laid her head against his shoulder, her short legs wrapped around his waist but Hugo Weasley still fought and Rose Weasley had probably decided that talking to him was so much more important (though he wasn't sure she understood that – even if he should answer, she would not hear it).

But – no – he didn't pay any real attention to those things – not even to the old hag swimming past, muttering, complaining about the standing in the way and just flirting instead of swimming the way they should. He did not care as he was – painfully – reminded of the dream he had the night after the two of them had – sex. Him leaning over her and counting her eyelashes and the children all asleep, and she, opening one eye and looking at him and then kissing him and it...no.

No.

He needed to get out. Not even his snarky self had put her off – had sent her away. She had merely replied with a comment of her own – and yes. Yes, he had seen those breasts close up. Shouldn't remember. Should just forget. But didn't work.

He couldn't explain the pull he felt towards that bloody woman. He couldn't understand it but it would have been so simple – and so difficult at the same time – to just shake Rose Weasley off and take Ophelia and apparate home. And it would have been so simple – and so difficult at the same time – to just step forward and brush his finger against her cheek and against her lips and against her eyelashes.

And no – he had the strange, inexplicable feeling that she hadn't just used him. It was just – an inkling – but why else would she look at him like this? Why else should she sent the Felix Felicis back – why would she sent it back if she hadn't been – – – hurt.

No, it couldn't be true.

He closed his eyes for a moment – and swallowed. And it seemed to pull her from whatever they had been in, staring at each other, as well.

"Uncle Snape, Mummy? Why are you looking at each other like that?" Rose Weasley suddenly asked.

"Daddy?" Ophelia asked in his ear, her voice sounding odd and he was reminded of his daughter – and of Rose Weasley. And where they were. And what he wore. And – everything surrounding him.

"Yes, Ophelia?" he turned to her – then, as he remembered that she couldn't hear him, he merely looked at her and gave her a little nod.

"I can't hear," she said and it sounded as if she was close to crying.

"Cancel the spell. Please," he looked at Herm – Granger – but merely briefly and a moment later, he saw her pulling her wand from the side of her bathing suit (holding it next to her thigh underneath the water) and muttering. He nodded at her and rested his head against his daughter's. "Better?"

She nodded vigorously and felt her wriggle free and he let her – and suddenly, Rose Weasley let go off his arm and Hugo Weasley let go of Hermione Granger and all three of them paddled, swam to shallower parts but while he kept his eyes on his Ophelia, he felt her moving towards him and – he felt her hand on his upper arm.

"I – erm," she began and he daren't look at her – and kept his eyes on his child.

xx

She had to say something. They had just stood there, in a public swimming pool, waist-deep in water and had stared at one another for an eternity. She had to – at least – tell him that she had enjoyed that night.

And that she wanted to spend time with him.

No, she couldn't. That would be close to suicide.

And still – when she couldn't help herself and when she had moved next to him, walking in the water, and had to touch his arm (at least something), he didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He didn't even scowl. He just watched out for the children. For all three children. Alert and yet at the same time, she knew that Severus Snape was a man who could pay attention to many things at once. She knew he would listen. Instinctively.

"I – erm," she stuttered. What? What 'I – erm?' Had the bloody fantasy of cooking together with him and eating with him and his daughter and her children. He would hex her straight out of the water.

But on the other hand – maybe he wouldn't. And maybe, if she was being laughed at – she could leave. Her dignity would suffer, yes, but at least she would show a bit of that so-called Gryffindor-bravery. She swallowed and noticed that she was still holding onto his arm and that it wasn't a tight grip – but she was merely touching him.

"Yes?" he asked suddenly and while he still didn't look at her, she knew he was paying attention. As she had suspected.

"Erm, do you think, if you don't mind and I know that it may sound odd but I can't help, really, asking, you know, even though it might sound weird and odd and whatnot but I thought that maybe, since those three really get along and I, erm, well, I kind of liked when we went out and it was very enjoyable and I thought that maybe, we could just, after we finished swimming, erm, could get a meal somewhere. Dinner. Or tea, really. Just a meal. My parents are away and we could even..."

"I believe you should breathe," he said slowly, interrupting her.

xx

She wanted to eat with him. Again. With the children. With Ophelia and Rose and Hugo Weasley?

At least that's what it sounded like when he separated the gist from the blabbing.

She had enjoyed going out with him? Enjoyed? Kind of liked? What kind of an expression was that? Enjoyable and kind of liked? Get a meal somewhere?

Severus Snape was confused – and yet, while his eyes were trained on his daughter every nerve-ending in his body seemed focused on the spot on his arm. That one spot where his bare skin connected to hers. Tingled and felt hot and cold at the same time.

"It was just an idea," she suddenly said and he knew that he had a choice. That way – or that. Following what he thought was the right thing – or following what his skin said. And his nerve-endings.

He drew a deep breathe and for a second only – only a second, really – he turned to look at her and knew his answer. It was – right.

"I think my daughter would enjoy that immensely," he replied slowly.

"Excuse me?" she asked. "Ophelia would enjoy what?"

"Didn't you just suggest a meal?" he replied snarkily. Had to keep this up. Had to be snarky. Kept her at a distance. For the time being. He was doing this for his daughter. At least she should think so.

"Oh," she gasped. "Yes. Yes. Are you saying...?"

"I'm saying that I think that my daughter would enjoy a meal with you and your children and since I have to reward her for her Slytherinness in bringing me here and somehow, apparently, got your children to bring you here, I think I should cater to her wish," he replied – coldly. Not to let her have the wrong idea.

"Oh," she gasped and he could feel her smile. He didn't see it – he felt it and she squeezed his arm and he had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.

_**xx**_


	61. Chapter 61

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**xx **_

She had absolutely no idea what had always compelled her to – forgive him. Ever since she had met him again, he had belittled her, had told her she was a bad mother, had slept with her just like that and had looked down at her the entire time.

But as she stood under the hot water, washing the chlorine off her body and from her hair and tried to keep her children (who were clean of it) from doing too many stupid things (and splashing her with cold water was a stupid thing). She had suggested to take Ophelia with her into the women's shower and have him take Hugo – but she had quickly bitten off the rest of what she had wanted to say – as she had seen the most outraged expression that she had ever – ever – seen on his face. And she thought it was better not to push anything at the moment.

Despite the fact that she didn't know why. She didn't know why she wasn't angrier with him. She didn't know why she went out of her way to see him more often – even though he had treated her very, very badly.

It – was strange. Strange that the feelings she had after that night – the feelings that she had thought she had pushed back – far back – even developed while he was only mean. Himself, really.

Maybe, she mused, washing her hair viciously, she had a masochistic streak. Or maybe, maybe she craved something, someone, who didn't only say yes, dear – but wasn't listened (as her ex-husband had done). Someone who would fight with her – and would not grow bored in the middle of the argument – or would run off (as her ex-husband had done). Someone who cared deeply for his daughter – someone who had held her own daughter above water. A many-layered person and – she was curious enough to want to peel away layer after layer after layer – until only Severus remained. And see what kind of person he was.

The one that had kissed her so wonderfully – so passionately – so deeply? The one that had kissed his daughter's brow as he stepped out of the water with her? The one, who had a moment later began asking Ophelia questions about how they had ended up there with her and her children also there? Or the one that had nodded at her briefly – and had looked so deeply into her eyes when they decided to leave to meet again in front of the Granger's house?

Someone else entirely? She wanted to know. Despite everything that he had done to her.

But maybe she was just a masochist after all.

xx

"Daddy, I only put my finger into the potion and..."

"You know what I said about taking any form of potion without being told to do so," he knew it was utterly ridiculous to scold his girl in the showers of a public swimming pool and he had to cast a warming charm on her as she began shivering and he felt the tickling in his throat again. The potion hadn't lasted as long as he wished for it and he knew he would have to take some more as soon as he got home – otherwise, he would have a sore throat and a cold for a while. And he wanted to avoid that.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Ophelia hugged herself – but a moment later, she straightened a little and looked in his eyes. "Are you very mad?"

"Quite mad, Ophelia, to be honest," he replied. "You do know that potions can be dangerous."

"But I knew it was Felix Felicis," she hugged herself tighter but so far, she had not cried. So far, she had taken his criticism for what it was worth. How it was meant.

"There are potions, and I do believe we have talked about this already, that can look like other, relatively harmless potions but are in fact poisonous," he explained. "And you simply tasted a potion that I threw against a wall? How often do I have to remind you that not everyone is nice, Ophelia? People might want to harm other people, my girl."

She nodded solemnly. "But Daddy..."

"Do you not understand that you could have killed yourself by ingesting that potion? And what would I have done then? You have to be careful, do you understand!" he knelt before her on the tiled floor and gripped her upper arms. "Do you understand, Ophelia?"

She nodded. "Yes, Daddy," she said meekly. "But Felix..."

He shook his head. "It does not matter," he said sharply. "You know exactly that I do not want you to do such things."

"But the potion made me bring you here," she hugged herself still.

"Don't you understand that this is not about being here? This is about you taking the potion. About being so dunderheadedly stupid and just trying something you don't know for sure what it is. Ophelia! You're not usually that daft."

She bit her lip hard and slowly, her eyes filled with tears. "I knew it was your Felix Felicis. I knew you made it, Daddy. I saw the potion and the vial before you threw it. And...I'm sorry, Daddy. I won't do it again."

"Be sure of it. There will be repercussions when you do next time, my girl. Is that clear?"

She shook her head slowly, a tear, large, clinging to her eyelashes before she blinked and it slid down, slowly, down her cheek. Severus caught it with his finger and it glistened there before he stroked the back of his fingers against her cheek. "What is not clear?"

"What are reper-cushions?" she asked in her small voice. He couldn't help but to pull her in his arms, and stood up slowly. She was being a little monkey again, wrapped herself completely around him, her legs, her arms.

"Consequences," he whispered in her ear. "If you do something this dangerous again, you will afterwards get a punishment."

She nodded and buried her face into his neck – again. "Does this mean we will not go to Hugo's Mummy's house later?"

He breathed deeply. It would be right not to go. She would understand how wrong she had been in just taking the potion. But that meant he would – no. He wanted to go. He wanted to go.

"We will, Ophelia," he answered. "I gave you my word and I gave Hermione Granger my word. I don't break my word. You know that."

He wanted to go. Even if he had to tell Hermione Granger that he was only going because of Ophelia.

xx

She was somewhat unconvinced that they would even come. She had been at home for at least 15 minutes and her children were sitting inside – just in front of the front door, cross-legged. Both quiet.

She busied herself in the kitchen – and noticed that there was nothing much in there to make a decent meal. The children would be happy, probably, about the frozen pizza. She shrugged to herself. Severus would not be there in any case. Since when did it take longer for men to be ready (even if they had a girl with them)? She had even managed to dry her hair and turn the frizz into waves (with the help of her wand, yes, in the privacy of the changing room) and had gotten two children dressed. And was at least fifteen minutes earlier than he was.

No, he wasn't coming. Checking the refrigerator for at least a bit of salad (and finding tomatoes and rocket), she pre-heated the oven, and began cutting the tomatoes. Pizza and tomato-rocket-salad. Would be fine (not that Hugo and Rosie would eat rocket – but still) when the door bell rang and she felt her heart skipping a beat and the knife cut painfully next to the tomato – into her finger.

xx

Ophelia was – not surprisingly – a very good girl until they stood in front of the Granger's house. And even then, she tried. He could see it and he had to bit back on a smirk. She was completely giddy. And he felt her wanting down from his arms as soon as the apparition-induced nausea had lessened a little.

"Ring the bell," he said softly and she jumped up and down excitedly and did. He heard two shrieks from inside and a 'for heaven's sake' from farther in and a second later, the door was flung open (honestly – did Hermione Granger not teach her children about being careful?) and two smiling, freshly-scrubbed faces grinned.

"Hullo Ophelia!" Hugo Weasley wanted to pull his girl inside and Ophelia – after glancing up at him and saw him nod – let herself be pulled inside.

"Hullo Uncle Snape," Rose Weasley smiled up at him and grabbed his hand. He wanted to flinch away – wanted to pull his hand back, wanted to shake her off but she had a tight hold on his hand and dragged him inside. "Mummy's in the kitchen cooking already," she informed him and – yes, he heard her in there, muttering – even one 'bloody' could be heard.

"Excuse me, Miss Weas..."

"Rose," she said sharply. "My name is Rose. Call me Rose."

He rolled his eyes and yanked his hand free. "Rose. I'd quite like to see if I can help your mother."

She shrugged. "Okay. I'll play with Ophelia and Hugo then."

She skipped away and he had to shake his head. He didn't understand. He was not kind at all – not to Hermione Granger and not to her children – and yet, all three of them seemed to want him around. To a certain extent.

Especially Hermione Granger – no. He didn't understand at all.

He knocked lightly on the kitchen door – and after he heard a muttered 'Come in', he pushed the door open and was met by a glare.

"You did invite us, did you not?" he asked – sneering a little.

"Yes," she replied and it sounded a bit – strangled. This was odd. She sounded as if she was – unhappy about something. Or in pain. He looked her up and down – and only then noticed a tea towel wrapped around her finger.

"What happened?" he asked immediately, forgetting his usual manner, forgetting the sneering, forgetting the snarkiness. Forgetting really who he was. Or wanted to be. In two long strides, he was just in front of her and had taken her hand, wrapped in the tea towel, in his. He didn't look in her eyes, kept his eyes trained on her finger and wanted to take the tea towel off as she began to speak.

"The knife just slipped."

He growled a little. Silly woman. Cut herself preparing food. One of the best potion students he had – and cut herself cutting – tomatoes, he noticed, looking quickly up to the working surface.

Carefully, he unwrapped the towel. The cut was – deep and bleeding. "What kind of knife do you use?" he asked – almost mockingly. Well, maybe it came out mockingly. Maybe – he wasn't sure. Her hand was warm in his and he felt himself compelled to look into her face for a brief moment. It hurt. It was written plainly all over her features, deep lines between her eyebrows.

"Do you want a pain potion?" he asked – and his voice came out much gentler than he had intended it to. But – the hand in his felt warm and soft and he was reminded of what that hand had done to him – and how good it had felt when it had touched his skin – his stomach, his back, his face, his entire body.

"I think I need stitches," she ground out and he frowned. But the cut was deep and blood was running into the towel that was between his left hand and her index finger. He focused on her hand – and saw, with great astonishment – that his right hand had taken hold of her wrist and that his thumb – treacherous thing – stroked over her pulse point.

"I am a wizard, Herm...," he stopped himself. Hadn't meant to say her name.

She seemed to think for a moment and her hand shook a little. "I – erm – would you stop the bleeding, Severus?" she spoke his name softly – gently – carefully – and he looked in her eyes. They were darker than before – a darker shade of brown – almost like weak coffee now, instead of strong tea and he nodded but found it difficult to pull his hand away from hers – to stop himself from caressing hers.

No. No. Not caressing. He was – – – soothing an injured person. That was what he was doing. Not caressing. Not stroking.

"Of course I will," he replied, still looking into her eyes, "Hermione."

He only couldn't quite pull his hand away yet. Wanted to. She was bleeding. She had to be healed. Quickly.

He concentrated on his right hand, loosening the fingers first – pulling the thumb away last, dragging it over her skin. Accidentally. Hadn't meant to do this.

He muttered the incantation under his breath – didn't notice that Hermione – Hermione – stood there, knees weak, that her breathing was shallower and quicker than usual (and it was not because of him – it was because the spell was uncomfortable, naturally, and because she had hurt herself) and only when he finished the spell, when the wound was closed and he looked up at her again – and hesitantly pulled his left hand away also – he noticed her staring back.

"Don't," she whispered and rapidly, her hand had found his again and the back of it rested in his palm and he didn't pull away one bit. It was better that way anyhow. Shouldn't move a freshly healed wound all too much. That was why he held her hand this way.

Looked into her eyes to see if she was about to faint from the blood loss. That was why he stared.

No other reason.

_**xx **_


	62. Chapter 62

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

_**Dedicated to maggiecate – I hope this makes you (and all of you other people out there) feel better!**_

_**xx**_

She knew her voice would sound husky. But it was maybe the feeling of her hand in his and that somehow, she had flipped her hand with the finger that only tingled now and her palm rested in his and his (or her?) fingers had found their way between the others – and they had entwined and somehow, she couldn't take her eyes off his and he seemed almost mesmerized by what he saw and she felt – utterly the same way.

His hand felt warm and dry and right in hers. It was so large and felt – just right. Just right. Nothing more, nothing less and she could feel that spark again. Looking in his eyes, feeling his hand – there was the bolt of lightning again that she had felt before. That shot straight to her knees and made them feel weaker than before and she felt herself swaying a little – almost swooning. She hadn't lost that much blood to cause fainting. In fact, probably she wouldn't even have needed stitches. A plaster would have been enough. Probably.

"Thank you," she found herself whispering and her knees grew weaker when he nodded and his lips twitched into a tiny smile. She had never, never fainted. Or swooned. Or – had her knees like jelly like she had now and somehow, she felt herself swaying a little more and suddenly, his arm was around her waist and she found herself flush against him.

"Do you feel faint? Do you have Blood-Replenishing Potion in the house?" he asked, and his large hand, the one not holding hers, cupped her cheek and lifted it up – and she looked into his eyes and he looked into her eyes. "Are you dizzy?"

"Dizzy, yes," she answered huskily, "Not faint."

"Dizzy? How many fing...," he wanted to pull his hand away from her cheek but she shook her head and covered his hand on her cheek with hers and when his thumb began to stroke her cheek underneath her hand, she pulled it away carefully and – rested it on his – stroking it herself. A small smile was playing on her lips and she knew exactly what she was doing. And why she felt that it would not end badly this time. She just knew, instinctively. His eyes were different this time and he stroked her cheek and her fingers and she merely stood on her toes and pulled his head down a little. And didn't hesitate before she let her lips brush against his.

Her eyes had just fluttered closed, when she felt him responding. His lips moving against hers, kissing her lower lip, her upper lip, his hand moving from her cheek to the back of her head, his fingers twining in her hair and pulling her closer as he bent down a little more and her hands moved to his shoulders and to his neck and touched his soft skin underneath his hair, stroked it with her fingertips and let her lips just feel. Let her lips feel how his tasted and felt like and how they moved against hers and suddenly, she felt him cupping the back of her head, his other hand somehow on the small of her back and pulling her closer and closer and let his tongue slip into her mouth and it was – it just was the perfect kiss.

xx

The moment she had swayed a little, he had, for security reasons, of course, wrapped his arm around her waist and the feeling of having naked Hermione in his arms returned in full. She felt almost as good fully dressed and he couldn't help stroking his fingers over her hand and had to make sure she was fine. Had to make sure that she wasn't in his arms because he wanted her to be, but because she needed to be.

And apparently – he was entirely mistaken. "Dizzy, yes," she said huskily, "Not faint." And she smiled and it seemed his heart skipped a beat. And she made sure his hand remained on her cheek.

Could it be – could it be that she was – that this night hadn't been just a night for her? He wanted to stop his fingers from stroking her cheek, wanted to stop himself and at the same time – wanted to be nowhere else.

He blinked and his cheek was covered by her hand and she gently caressed it. She didn't speak and he knew he couldn't get one single word out even if he wanted to.

He saw her coming closer and he willed her closer and he bent down a little – or maybe was pulled down by her, he wasn't sure, and tenderly, cautiously, her lips brushed over hers and his eyes wide open, he saw hers flutter close and this simply movement, the eyelashes moving and fluttering and flitting against her soft skin made him do it. His lips knew what they were doing and this was nothing like the one single kiss they had shared that night. He knew this was different, very, very different and he merely kissed her lower lip, her upper lip and her hair was so inviting, he had to touch it, had to pull her closer and he had to – taste her completely.

Had to hold her tightly to him, and kiss her the way she deserved to be kissed. He took his time, touched her hair, cupped the back of her head, tangled his fingers in her hair again, his hand roamed her back and he just kissed her – as if it was the simplest thing on earth and it really was. It was easy to hold her and to kiss her and to explore her mouth and to just close his eyes and feel her responding in kind. Languidly, slowly, gently, softly, tenderly.

So very different from their first kiss.

He could not remember ever to have been kissed – ever to have kissed – like this. And he somehow, deep inside, he didn't want it to end.

xx

She thought it was quite boring to watch Hugo and Ophelia play with the stupid train set. And really, they did nothing else. Crash the train, fix it again, crash it again. And she had another question for Uncle Snape. It was boring and even making food would be more interesting.

Especially – she grinned – if Uncle Snape talked to her and explained why wormwood didn't work together with azalea extract. She had read it and she was really curious. Not that Mummy would let her use either in a potion, but maybe he would.

She huffed – loudly – so that Hugo and Ophelia could hear her – and left the stupid living room where they played with the stupid train set and walked quietly to the kitchen. She had noticed that it was always better to walk quietly. It was good for sneaking up on people.

The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar and she pushed it open as quietly as she could and remained very, very quiet. Her glimpse fell on a bloodied tea towel lying on the floor and she almost gasped – but when she looked up – her eyes widened considerably and the tea towel was completely forgotten.

There stood Mummy and she was hugged by Uncle Snape and Uncle Snape and Mummy kissed! They kissed! On the mouth. And Mummy hugged Uncle Snape back and stroked his hair and they were really kissing. She hadn't ever seen Mummy and Dad kiss like that – but she had seen it on the telly. And then it was really, really weird since their lips were sort of disconnected a little for a moment but then – eww – both of their tongues touched and then their lips were connected together and Rosie couldn't help the slight grimace of ever so slight disgust. Who would want to touch another person's tongue with his own tongue. That was just icky.

But she couldn't help but watch, since this was – well, it was new and she was always interested in seeing new things and as long as they kept their tongues in their mouths – oh no – it was happening again – everything would be fine.

But – had she missed something? She thought Mummy was angry at Uncle Snape because of one thing or another and Uncle Snape had been angry at Mummy in the pool earlier. And now they stood there, hugging and kissing and – eww – tongue-touching again.

And they were doing this for a long time. She stood there for at least two minutes, very silently, and they were still kissing. She didn't understand it – she liked cuddles and hugs as well but didn't they have to breathe? Or open their eyes?

Somehow, it wasn't odd to see Mummy and Uncle Snape there, like this. She liked Uncle Snape. And if Mummy liked him, maybe they would see him more often. And she could ask him things more often and he would have to answer because he liked Mummy. And Mummy really seemed to like him and she seemed to like her. Why else would they hug and kiss for such a long time? Without breathing and opening her eyes.

She stepped away from the door frame, deciding that Hugo and Ophelia had to see this as well.

xx

"You have to see this," Rosie hissed as she came quietly back into the living room. They had just crashed another train and Ophelia was really, really busy healing the train and the people before they could let it crash again.

"What?" Hugo asked.

"Mummy and Uncle Snape are kissing and hugging," she said solemnly, very quietly.

"Kissing and hugging?" Ophelia asked. "Why?"

Rosie shrugged. "I think they like each other."

Ophelia grinned. This was probably the purpose of the potion. She hoped. It was nice for Daddy to have someone else to hug and kiss beside herself. Daddy sometimes needed a lot of hugs and kisses and she knew that hers weren't really enough sometimes. And he had had that glazed look on his face earlier when Hugo's Mummy had come into the pool. Daddy sure liked Hugo's Mummy and maybe, Hugo's Mummy would see them more often and she could see Hugo and Rosie more often and Daddy would be happy. And maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have a real family. With Hugo's Mummy as her own Mummy as well.

Especially since she knew that Hugo's Mummy had never just put Hugo with other people and Hugo had told her that his Mummy always gave him enough to eat and new clothes and hugged him and kissed him, when he needed or wanted it. That would be a nice Mummy, actually.

She stood up and smiled and grinned and pulled Hugo up with her. "Let's have a look," she said and felt very cheery.

Rosie made sure they all walked very quietly and that they could all take a look. She was first.

This was different than the hugs and kisses he was giving her. This was really different. But Daddy had his content-look on his face and Ophelia knew that this was good. He was happy and that made her happy.

xx

He pulled away hesitantly. Didn't want to end the kiss but he knew they had to be careful because of the children. They were only playing in the next room and he wasn't sure what this would turn into. True, he couldn't say how much time had passed and he didn't care but he didn't want Ophelia (or her children) to see this and be confused. He was confused enough at the moment.

"Now I'm dizzy," she chuckled and gave him another little, soft kiss on the lips. He couldn't help the smile that appeared on his face and he held the sides of her neck, rubbing his thumbs over her jaw.

He nodded – and stopped smiled when he heard three children clapping and cheering behind him and he spun around and looked into three very grinning, very happy faces.

Even his Ophelia was grinning and clapping and cheering and jumping up and down. He was thoroughly confused and from the corner of his eye, he saw the Hermione felt just the same way.

_**xx**_


	63. Chapter 63

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

This wasn't meant to happen. The plan had been so simple. Hermione had planned to be alone at first and then she would date, without her children knowing. And then, maybe, eventually, she would get together with a man (in case she ever should) and after a decent interval, she would introduce him (whoever he was) to Rose and Hugo but only in case it was something serious.

But oh – she groaned inwardly – the children were never meant to catch her snogging someone in her kitchen. And snogging Severus especially. The children knew him. And liked him. And his daughter as well. And they were all so happy about this. All three of them cheering and clapping and jumping up and down.

Severus beside her was – almost beside himself. He seemed extremely confused but then again, this was how she felt. Confused. The children seemed to believe, seemed to think that they were together now. And she didn't know. And he didn't know either. Obviously.

She had never seen him so confused. And she had never felt this confused. Because – truth be told – she wanted to be with him. Wanted to be what their children saw. Wanted to grab him and just kiss him again and be blown away by that kiss again. So blown away that she completely forgot that there were even children in the house.

She had no idea what to do and as much as she wanted to take his hand and explain to the children that they had just walked into the beginning of something – she couldn't. She didn't know whether this was the beginning of something. And apparently, he didn't know either.

But really – could someone kiss like that without some feeling behind it? They had kissed before and that had been very, very different.

"Erm," she said very intelligently and was completely out of her depths. What to say, what to say.

"Children," he said suddenly and he seemed to have his bearings much quicker. "Could you please go into the living room? We will call you when dinner is ready."

"Daddy...but..." Ophelia tried to complain but he scowled down at the three of them – and before he had to say anything else, they scurried away and he followed to the door – closed it – and warded it before he turned back to her and looked at her. Said nothing – only looked.

She had to smile – this was just – when one thought about it, very funny. Snogging like teenagers and then the children found them doing it. And the children clapping and cheering and being happy about it.

She let her head fall back and began to laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked snidely.

"It's funny."

"It is not. I don't know what to tell my daughter. She probably thinks we're..."

Hermione's face fell. So he didn't want the same things she did. Of course he was content with his daughter only. And Mary Kelly. Who needed someone like her when he had them? It was – she should have known.

She swallowed hard and turned back to the working surface – and with the greatest concentration she could muster, she continued to cut the tomatoes.

xx

Had he said something wrong? He was just concerned about what to tell his daughter. And had hoped he would get an answer from her about what this was – what this could turn into. He wanted it to turn into something. He knew. Didn't know how it had happened and when and why but he knew that it had. Wanted to pull her back into his arms and kiss her again. That was why he had sent the children back into the living room. Well, amongst other things. He would have to know.

But apparently, something was wrong now. And he didn't know what it was.

Didn't the woman know that he had absolutely no experience in relationships? Other than that to his daughter and Mary Kelly?

He frowned and heard her chop the tomatoes – and – sniffle.

Sniffle?

Why? Didn't she know how to send him away? That didn't really make sense.

Or did she think – oh. She couldn't really think that he didn't want this – after that kiss. He had to – do something. The sniffle turned into a half-sob and he stepped a little closer but she turned around quickly.

"Just go then, okay?" she looked at him and her eyes were brimming with tears.

He didn't understand it. Just go then. Did it mean she didn't want him to stay? But why should she fight her crying then? No, she certainly thought that he wanted to go.

But he didn't want to. He bit his lip subconsciously and as she turned back to her tomatoes, he was behind her and slowly brought his hands to each side of her waist and bent down to whisper in her ear. "Do you want me to go?" he asked quietly.

She sobbed again – and shook her head. "But," she began hesitantly, "I can't do this one-night-thing."

He sighed and sneaked one hand from her waist to her stomach. "Who says anything about a _one-night-thing_? As far as I remember, we already tried this, didn't we? And how would I explain a _one-night-thing_ to Ophelia?" he couldn't help speaking that hyphenated word a little mockingly.

He felt her breathing hitching against his chest as he bent down further and forward to kiss her cheek. A little clumsily – he had to admit. But she turned around and looked – puzzled.

"I didn't know you could be so..."

"So?" he asked with an arched eyebrow and a little sneeringly – even as her arms slid around his waist.

She shrugged and lay her head against his chest and he had to close his eyes for a moment. This feeling in his chest and stomach was almost unbearable. And he had not expected this feeling. Definitely not this. Had expected a stirring somewhere else (which was there – indubitably) but not this – – – contentment holding her with his chin on top of her head and his arms around her and his hands on her back. He had not expected this. A lot of things, yes. Not this.

She looked up after a moment, and smiled openly, "So lovely."

He had to cough. Lovely? Ah – she was delusional. She had taken some drugs. Or had drunk. Or it was too much blood she had lost. She had hallucinations. Definitely. He was not lovely. He was snarky and mean and a git. But not lovely.

"You lost too much blood. Do you have a potion?" he asked and as an answer, he only received a chuckle and she looked up into his eyes. She shook her head.

"I think I do. But I don't need it. I've just never seen you like this," she replied. "Except with Ophelia."

"Like what?" he asked and wanted to pull away slightly but she kept her arms locked around him.

"Like this. I can't explain. I'm sorry," she shook her head. "And this conversation is kind of stupid."

He growled low in his chest and grimaced. This was truly truly a strange conversation. She smiled again and stood on her tiptoes. "So what do we tell the children?"

xx

She was very confused. Daddy and Hugo's Mummy had said to them while eating pizza and salad (and she liked it but Daddy, who sat next to her and next to Hugo's Mummy didn't like it much) that they would continue seeing each other.

Well – what did that mean? Of course they would continue to see each other. They saw each other often. She truly didn't understand. What did it mean? She had thought about it before she went to sleep, thinking how sweet it had looked when Daddy had given Hugo's Mummy a little kiss on the lips when they went home (or maybe Hugo's Mummy had given Daddy the kiss – she wasn't sure) and what it meant seeing each other and she continued to think about it when she woke up early in the morning.

She was still puzzled and knew only one person could answer her question. She slipped from her bed and walked quietly walked to her Daddy's bedroom. The door, as always, was ajar and she pushed the door open and smiled when she saw her Daddy lying flat on his back, snoring. Daddy looked cute when he snored. His mouth was a bit open and his nostrils flared a bit. She was very quiet and didn't know for sure what time it was but she just slipped into his bed and snuggled up to him.

That usually woke him – and this time was no different. He was up within seconds and thought a little grumpily, he pushed his hair from his face and looked at her concernedly.

"Ophelia?" he asked in that lovely sleepy voice.

"Good morning, Daddy," she smiled and hugged him.

"What happened?"

"I have a question, Daddy," she said earnestly and Daddy groaned. He probably didn't like being asked something again. He never did before he had his coffee in the morning.

He grumbled and sat up a little and looked at her. She smiled a little and sat on his lap – sort of – since he leant against the headboard and she sat on the sort of lap and leant against his legs that were pulled up a bit.

"Ask," he said.

"Will you marry Hugo's Mummy?"

He looked suddenly a bit pale and his mouth stood open a little and he didn't answer for a long time.

_**xx**_


	64. Chapter 64

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

It was like a punch to the stomach. It felt like it – on an empty stomach, no caffeine in his system, just woken up.

"Will you marry Hugo's Mummy?"

On an empty stomach. Just like that.

And truth be told, he hadn't even consider the possibility of getting married any time in the future. To anyone. Never. Had never thought about it. And now his daughter, his girl was so – curious. So frank. So honest. And she asked – what she had a right to ask. She had seen them together. She had seen them kissing, for heaven's sake. She had seen him giving Hermione a kiss good bye. They had explained that they would continue seeing one another.

They had decided to try. What that would mean – for him, for her, for the children – he wasn't sure. Especially since she had been married to a Weasley. And he didn't even want to know what would happen to her, once the Weasleys found out. And the rest of the decent Wizarding World. And the rest of the indecent Wizarding World.

Truth be told, he had not even thought about it. And she probably hadn't either.

He frowned a little – then noticed that his little witch was still sitting there, waiting for him to answer, fixing him with her eyes.

"I don't know, Ophelia," he answered honestly.

Honesty. He still owed her honesty. And she was the most important person in his life. Whatever he felt for Hermione – Ophelia would be first. Always. If Ophelia was uncomfortable (or would get uncomfortable) in him seeing Hermione – he would end it. No matter how he felt.

Ophelia was first priority. And would always be. He pulled his puzzled looking daughter to him and held her tightly to his chest, kissed her head. He had to talk to his little witch. She deserved this. She deserved to have a say in the matter. This wasn't only about him and about Hermione – if it would be – he would probably be with her now. But there was Ophelia and there were her own children. They would have to be considered.

It wasn't just them.

"Do you like Hermione?" he asked her softly and she looked up, her pointy elbows on his chest and nodded.

"I will not continue seeing her when you're uncomfortable or don't like her, little witch," he continued.

She frowned. Why did she frown now?

"Daddy?" she asked, lying back flat on his chest again.

"Yes?"

"What does it mean, seeing each other?" she asked quietly and wriggled a little to make herself more comfortable. "You saw each other before. And what's the difference now?"

She hadn't understood. And that was why she was confused. She had seen them kissing and then telling her that they were only seeing each other – he would be confused if he were in her shoes.

"It means," he whispered in her ear, "that Hermione and I will go out together."

"Go out together?"

He nodded in her hair and kissed it again. He dreaded the day when she asked about birds and bees and babies and – – – siblings. Siblings.

He was reminded of the dream he had again. There had been another child. A girl named Zoe and he remembered the feeling he had in the dream. With Hermione. It had been similar to the feeling he had had the night before, kissing her. A weird sort of contentment – similar to the one he was feeling every time Ophelia told him that she loved him – only different.

She seemed to notice that he was thoughtful – that he wasn't sure what to tell her and so she looked up again – and smiled. "Does this mean you will kiss Hugo's Mummy?"

He smiled a little back – and nodded. "Yes. And it might be that there are some nights that I want to go out to dinner with her. But Ophelia, I will only do that when you are fine with it."

She wrinkled her brow. "Why should I not be fine with it, Daddy?"

He tightened his arms around her and brushed his fingers through her hair. Didn't know what to say – but she was his smart little girl – she squealed and shrieked and when he loosened his grip, she looked up.

"Daddy?" she asked again – and it was her mischievous tone. Nothing good could come off that tone.

"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked, matching her tone – and raising her eyebrow just as she did (at the same time as him – she truly was his child).

"Does this mean, when you have dinner with Hugo's Mummy and you come home late, that I can probably sleep over at Hugo's and Rosie's?" she asked – a little sly expression on her face.

He groaned (all this before he had his cup of coffee) and tickled her ribs. "Maybe," he drawled as she squealed happily.

xx

She wore that silly grin on her face when she came down to breakfast that morning. Completely forgetting about the annexe and the builders, of course she came down into the kitchen in her dressing gown. She groaned as the first one stared and almost drooled through the closed window and pulled the yellow garment tighter around herself and rolled her eyes. When the man still drooled – she felt her happiness return – and stuck her tongue out at the man.

"Morning, Hermione," her mother came into the kitchen, dressed properly. Of course. And her hair, which was never as messy as Hermione's, in a nice bun. Mum was always so quick and awake in the mornings. Or maybe it was just because of the builders.

"Morning, Mum", she grinned sheepishly, and knew she grinned sheepishly. Rolling her eyes at herself, she tried to ignore the snigger that escaped her mother's throat.

"So – Hermione," she began, with two cups of tea sitting next to her daughter. "Care to tell me something?"

Hermione shook her head innocently but her mother merely grinned at her. "And what would you say if I told you that Rosie is, at this moment, telling her little brother that she thinks how truly _icky_ it is that you touched Uncle Snape's tongue with your tongue."

Hermione sighed. "We kissed," she said quietly. "And Rosie saw this?" she groaned.

"Rosie saw this. And Hugo, apparently. Because Hugo said that you were not tongue-touching. Kissing Severus Snape, Hermione?" she smirked. "In my kitchen?"

"What do you want to hear, Mum?" she asked – resignedly.

She chuckled. "I think I'll leave the what-are-your-intentions-towards-my-daughter-talk to your father."

"Oh haha, Mother," Hermione was slightly annoyed. "So, I might have a sort of crush on him. Or maybe it's more. I don't know."

"He was the reason that you felt so miserable. And now you're sure that it's..."

"We told the children we would be seeing each other," she said sternly. And that must mean something."

She nodded. "Let me know when you'd like me to babysit," she smiled, kissed Hermione's forehead and went from the kitchen to see what the builders were doing.

Hermione sat and groaned again – when her mother knocked against the window and she scrambled up to open it.

"I'd just think about what to tell your former family-in-law," she said and looked away, "and leave the window open, there's an owl coming."

xx

Mary Kelly couldn't help the broad grin on her face.

Severus had confessed. Well, not quite. Ophelia had ratted him out, more or less, and he had finished the story. So he and Hermione – an item. And there had been no interference necessary from her or Hermione's parents. They had done it – almost – on their own. She had the feeling that a little of the Felix Felicis had had a hand in it. But as long as Severus looked almost – almost – smug about the entire thing – as long as he almost smiled, it was fine by her. And the reason why – that was really unimportant.

"I could watch the children tonight," she had said afterwards and he had understood and had summoned his owl.

Not even half an hour later, a reply had come and he had informed her that the Granger's would watch the children and that Ophelia could even stay overnight.

Mary had understood immediately. Making love to Hermione in an empty flat was making more sense than making love in Hermione's former nursery with her parents and she had smiled, had kissed his cheek and had helped Ophelia get dressed, had helped Severus in the apothecary – hiding her grin every time there was an owl. Every hour one. That man was hooked.

No matter what he believed himself to be – he was done in. Completely. He was in love. Utterly besotted. A bit quick – but then again – maybe not that quick. It truly made her smile and at around five, he closed the shop, told her to go home – and went upstairs.

She sighed deeply. She hoped she wouldn't lose that new family of hers. It would certainly break her heart. But she would fight to keep Severus and Ophelia. She would fight and she would keep them. Somehow.

It destroyed her entire mood – all of the happiness she had felt throughout the day vanished immediately.

If Severus and Hermione – if that was serious, she doubted he and Ophelia would stay here in Knockturn Alley. It just wasn't right with Hugo being a squib. Severus was much too decent to stay when his stepson couldn't do magic.

She knew this was talk of the future. She knew it was unreasonable to think that she would lose Severus and Ophelia – but she couldn't help herself. She sank down on the floor in the dark apothecary and put her face in her hands. And even though she didn't feel the _need_ to drink Silvergin, she remembered how good it had felt to forget.

xx

She positively beamed and wore that amazing, amazing smile on her face. Ophelia had told him good night, had hugged him long and hard, had kissed him about a thousand times, told him thank you for being allowed to stay overnight and had darted off with Hugo and Rose. And Hermione's parents had only said a quick hello before they had vanished into the living room again. And the two of them stood in the hallway, she slipped into her coat – and looking around for a moment, she smiled even a little more and stepped close to him.

"Hi," she said softly and flung her arms around his neck.

He smirked a little but couldn't help bending down and pressing a chaste kiss on her lips but as he pulled away, he saw her rolling her eyes and she immediately pulled him down again and kissed him. Decently. Despite her parents being in the next room. Despite the children being only upstairs and no, no, he wasn't sure he wanted that, concentrated on something else except her tongue in his mouth and stroking his – and apparated them away. Apparated them straight to the backyard of the restaurant he was taking her to.

She pulled away. "What did you do?" she asked, curious.

"Apparition, Miss Granger. It's a concept of..."

"Shut up," she growled and pulled him in for another kiss.

xx

Jude chuckled and rested her head on his shoulder as he lay his arm around his shoulder. The children were giggling upstairs and another half an hour until bedtime.

"They're good together, I think," he said and felt her nod immediately. "But Ronald will probably not be too happy when he finds out."

"That's what I told Hermione. More or less."

"What did she say?"

"Not much," she sighed, "but I think she will think about it."

"Probably not now," he chuckled and pressed his lips on her temple, "they're probably snogging in some dark corner somewhere at the moment."

"Mh," she looked up and smiled and pursed her lips.

He laughed a little, bent down and kissed her. Deeply. He was completely focused on his wife, still focused on the feelings that his wife of over 30 years could evoke, that he did not hear the children come into the living room.

He didn't notice, until Rosie shrieked. "Eww, look, they're doing the tongue-touching as well."

"That's just – blech!" Hugo exclaimed afterwards and he had to pull away and had to laugh. Jude wasn't doing so well – she seemed a bit flustered but he had to look at the children – his eyes were drawn to them. And he saw three utterly disgusted faces and smirked at the thought that it was his daughter's – and Severus Snape's job – to explain the concept of nice, deep, French kisses (and not his).

xx

Mary Kelly wasn't sure what had made her walk from the apothecary and onto the Alley. She knew that she did not need alcohol. She wasn't even sure that she wanted it. But she didn't want to think about maybe losing Severus and Ophelia. Yes, yes, it was unlikely. But she knew Severus. And she knew Severus better than Hermione.

And yes, she had encouraged it. But she had not thought that this would turn serious so quickly. And this was serious. Ophelia had even said that he might marry her. And that would mean she would lose her home, maybe, would lose the coal flat, would lose her job, would lose her family. What did she know about living in the Muggle world? And would Severus keep his apothecary if his stepson could not do magic? Could he keep it when he didn't live there any more? Did he want to?

Knockturn Alley wasn't right for a child, not even someone like Ophelia. She should have thought about this sooner. They could only teach the girl that much. And with Hermione in the picture? With Hermione's children? That was a complete family. With blood-grandparents. Not with a former drunk that had stumbled into their lives because she passed out in front of their apothecary.

She bit her lip – and walked into the pub.

_**xx**_

_**Thank you!**_


	65. Chapter 65

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

This mousse au chocolat was – divine and she couldn't help licking her spoon extra-clean. Severus seemed mesmerised by her lips and she had to bite back her grin. Men were sometimes so simple, really.

She knew though, that sooner or later, and she wasn't sure when that time would be, she would need his advice on how to deal with the Weasleys. Should this thing with him continue. She couldn't quite figure out yet, what to tell them, but on the other hand, well, she was grown up, she could be with whomever she wanted. And Ronald had not seen his children for over two months. The law was through, it would be difficult for him to get the children even if she was with Severus. Besides, objectively seen, he had been cleared of all charges, all those years ago. And there had been the rumours about them already – months ago. In the paper.

She couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, some mousse au chocolat in her mouth.

"Something funny?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"I was just thinking about those rumours in the Prophet about us," she answered honestly and covered his hand with hers. He arched an eyebrow but said nothing, merely looked a tiny bit amused.

"And you don't seriously consider, I hope, going to them and telling them to revise that statement," he said mockingly.

"Don't be silly, of course not. It's nobody's business but ours," she laughed.

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head a little and he gripped her hand a little tighter on the table. She knew in that moment that he was a little unsure as well. That he knew that the Weasleys, or at least some of them, would try to get them apart. Would make it more more difficult for them.

And in that moment, she made a decision. It was quite simple. "It is not their business either," she said sternly.

"But he has a right to his children and he's tried before to get them," he said immediately – so she had been right. He had been thinking about her former family-in-law.

"He hasn't seen his children in over two months," she replied, "the law is through, I have witnesses that Rose and Hugo have a good life with me, and I work for the Wizengamot. I will not tell them anything. And if they find out eventually, so be it. I don't care. Ronald might be the father of my children but you spent more time with them since we got the divorce."

She smiled sweetly at him and on impulse, he lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently.

His eyes softened and he pulled her hand to him now, and kissed her knuckles. She wanted him to understand that she wanted that to last. And he was probably feeling just the same way – the way he seemed to be, slightly, concerned. And no, she didn't want the Weasleys to interfere in any way. She wanted her life, with him, simple. Being together and see what this developed into. And not feel pressurised by anyone. And she would make damn sure they could. Even if she had to obliviate all of them.

"You're flat is empty, isn't it?" she asked, smiling and batting her eyelids and before she could say something else, he had waved for the waiter and she couldn't help but laugh.

xx

The Rusty Nail. Godfrey Wooley had put the glass in front of her. She hadn't usually had the Silvergin in a glass. Had always taken it straight from the bottle. But oh yes, Wooley had, with a self-satisfied grin and a "told ya so," put the glass in front of her. And she stared at it. Had been staring at it for the last 30 minutes and every five minutes, someone came over – someone she had known in that life to say hello and to make more than one snide remark about the clean, decent clothes she wore, the way she spoke, apparently, when she was sober and the way she smelled.

She stared at the glass and the silvery clear liquid in it and with a deep breath, she picked up the glass and sniffed on it.

She had ever drunk that? It smelled truly disgusting. Sharp and just generally – just disgusting. Ophelia would say yucky. Ophelia.

She closed her eyes tightly, and lifted that glass to her lips – and slowly, feeling the cold glass against her lips, she took a sip.

And spit it out immediately.

This was more than disgusting. It hurt drinking. It tasted like burning manure and she wasn't sure whether it had always tasted this way – or whether it was Severus's potion. She didn't know – and she didn't truly care. No matter what happened in the future, what would happen to her, what she would do and what they would do – Severus had created that potion for her. Had made her a cure. Had given her an amazing gift. And that had to be enough for the time being. And she was sober. She could get a job again. And with a job, she would find a flat. And it would have to be enough.

She threw Wooley and the other patrons a look – as arrogant as she could muster – and disappeared from the pub.

The coal flat and sleep. And maybe – just maybe – talk to Severus in the morning. Ask him about his plans – quietly. Tell him that she needed some time to find a job. To find another flat. And if it wasn't too much to ask, she'd like to just know a little beforehand.

Mary nodded to herself. That was the best plan. Definitely the best plan. She walked around the corner and immediately pressed herself against the wall of the building when she noticed someone apparating just outside the apothecary – the street was otherwise empty and it was the bittersweetest feeling to see Severus kissing Hermione on the dark doorstep to the shop.

She knew she should be happy for them and she was, she truly was. But apart from the fear of losing his new family, it made her miss Joe. It made her miss her husband, her family. It made her remember what Joe and herself had been up to back in the days. Snogging in every dark corner they could find and holding hands and going somewhere – her parents' place, his – and being up to less good.

How she still loved that man. Gone for such a long time, but she had never stopped. She held her hand tightly over her mouth and rushed, very, very quickly, around the apothecary back to her coal flat – the tears running down her cheeks.

xx

The tour of the flat had been quick. In fact, he had only shown her Ophelia's room – as he closed her door tightly. It felt wrong to let it open. Just wrong when he knew what he was about to do just across the hall.

She smiled at him, turned to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and began to kiss him softly at first but he was – he just was impatient. He wanted that woman in his arms and in his bed and preferably in reverse order. He deepened the kiss, let his hands roam over her body and it was so very different from the way their first time had gone. This was a better feeling, to kiss her while stumbling into his bedroom and to feel her kisses and her hands opening the buttons on his shirt and her lips trailing down where she opened the shirt.

But he had other plans. Wanted to take his time. Wanted to do this for her. Wanted to give her pleasure.

He pulled back slightly and brushed his fingers over her lips and backed her against his bed – letting her sit and immediately took his shirt completely off and moved behind her, sitting close, her back against his chest and ran his hands over her bare arms, merely brushing over them, the softness of them an incredible feeling on his fingertips. Moved his hands down to hers, bending down, and kissing her neck languidly – his mouth a little open and his tongue darting out from time to time and tasting her skin – her.

"Severus," she said breathily, "what are you dong to me."

He let his fingertips wander to her collarbone – her upper chest, merely ghosting over her skin. "I'm doing what I should have done that night," he whispered in her ear and she gasped and turned her head and her lips met his and she tangled her fingers in her hair and kissed him, kissed him – and he knew he had never been kissed like this before and he would never be kissed like this again by any other woman and he knew in that moment that that night – and every future night he would spent with her – would be magnificent and magnificent and magnificent.

And truly, truly magic.

xx

She – wanted to find words. She wanted to tell him what he had done to her but that wasn't possible. Every bit of eloquence she once had, had been gone out of her head the moment had had began to kiss her – and it hadn't stopped until now, when she lay next to him, only their hands touching, really. She wished to be in his arms. For a moment only, really. But she knew that some men did not do it. And he hadn't done it that night before, though this was so clearly different. It had been – magical and she was truly, utterly beyond words. But the smile could not be vanished from her face. The lazy, utterly satisfied smile and as she looked over to where he lay, she saw the same smile on his face.

She couldn't speak, really, and she didn't feel there was the need to.

"Hermione," he, however, didn't seem to have problems uttering a word (though – she remembered that she hadn't had problems saying his name minutes ago) and turned on his side, his arms open to her.

She gasped and immediately, with that foolish, sheepish smile on her face, shifted to snuggle into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her, stroked her bare back and pushed his nose in her hair.

She still smiled blissfully. Could spent the rest of her time like this and a tiny, tiny mix between a moan and a sigh came from her mouth. She looked up into his face, her hand flat on his chest, her fingers barely moving and still smiled. She would have to try to speak. Though what to tell him – she wasn't sure and so she merely settled for a kiss on his chest, and a soppy smile.

She was – absolutely in love with that man.

She cleared her throat and still that stupid smile. That stupid stupid stupid smile. He on the other hand, seemed someone else from the man that she thought she knew. This was the layers. This was Severus – the man she wanted to have by her side. The man that stroked her hair and that man that seemed transfixed by her eyes, and that man that wrapped a curl around his finger.

"Close your eyes," he said a moment later, quietly, gently.

"Erm, okay," she seemed to have found the art of speech again – at least partially. But she did as she was told and felt a fingertip brushing over her eyelashes.

"They are so beautiful," he whispered.

"What?" she chuckled and wanted to open her eyes.

"No, no, don't open them, please," he continued and she felt his lips on her eyelids and her lashes and she still had to laugh.

"My eyelashes?" she asked with her eyes closed.

"Yes," he replied. "It's not funny."

"No," she replied immediately. "It's not."

xx

He wondered whether it had been Ophelia, really. Ophelia that had taught him to be like this. To be able to hug a person. He wondered whether it was Ophelia who had taught him to being able to hold someone.

And if he was being honest with himself, he had to say – yes. Ophelia had taught him to show affection. To lean over Hermione – and watched her sleep. Had tried to count her eyelashes, and it was impossible. Too many and too little light.

But she just lay there, trusting him and had her hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder.

No, it was Ophelia that had taught him all this. But – there were things that she couldn't teach him, he knew. And this woman there in his bed – she had probably the capacity. He wasn't sure yet.

He settled back into his pillow and stroked over her hair. He liked this woman very, very much and as he lay, with her half on him, and he himself, half asleep, he even thought that maybe, someday, this woman could be a part of his family. Her, him, the children, Mary, her parents.

xx

She waited inside the apothecary for him to eventually show up – but she didn't expect him until very late. She remembered those days very clearly. Very, very clearly. The crying, to be honest, had helped a lot. And she had talked, for the first time, to the last moving picture she had of Joe alone. The rest she had, weathered and worn, were of the entire family. And those words she had to speak were for his ears only.

She had told him how much she missed him and that she loved him and that she was desperately sad not to being able to have grown old with him. Had talked to him for an hour or two and afterwards, it had been clear, very clear, that she could go on. She would manage. Somehow. And Severus was a kind man – and he would probably help – even if he was utterly in love with that woman.

She dusted the shelf in front of her. Maybe, he would let her take over part of the apothecary. Would let her clean or anything. He was a good, kind man.

"Good morning!" she heard a female, happy voice behind her and turned.

Oh yes, she remembered that look on a woman's face and she couldn't help but grin for a moment. "Good morning, Hermione."

The woman rushed to her, beaming sappily and hugged her. "Slept well?"

She lied. Of course she lied. She hadn't really slept – but this woman had just reassured her. Her concerns had probably been for naught. Probably.

"Morning, Mary," Severus grumbled. "Did you open the apothecary already?"

She shook her head. "Morning Severus. No. Wanted to wait and I'm not sure whether I'm fit to do it."

"Is she always like that?" Hermione asked. "Woman doesn't know what she's capable off."

"Clearly," he drawled. "But we won't open it. We're invited. All of us," he sneered a little. "For breakfast at Hermione's parents."

She swallowed. Swallowed around the lump in her throat. The entire night – the almost drinking – the worries. For nothing. For absolutely nothing. She felt the tears in her eyes – but she smiled and nodded.

xx

It had been alright, really. Hugo's grandma and grandpa (who had said to call them Jude and John) had brought them all to bed, and had read to them but she did miss Daddy. And yes, she had to cry a little very early in the morning when she had woken up because she missed him.

But a minute or so later (and she had been really, really quiet), Jude had come in and had hugged her and had suggested that she owl her Daddy and that all of them should have breakfast together.

But nothing was complete without Mary – and she had said so, a little shyly – and Jude had smiled and had helped her write the owl.

But she was truly, truly impatient to see her Daddy again and had planted herself in the hall, just inside the front door and sat and waited.

And waited.

Did they always sleep so long? That happened when she wasn't there to wake Daddy. And she would wake Hermione if they should ever make a slumber party at their house, with Hugo's Mummy and Hugo and Rosie (and she had tried very hard the entire morning she had been up to say Hermione).

She sighed and looked back up at the ceiling and in that moment, the door opened.

"Daddy!" she yelled and jumped up and ran straight into his legs.

He looked at her and she looked at him and he arched an eyebrow. She lifted her arms and grinned and he picked her up. "I missed you, Daddy," she whispered in his ear and wrapped herself around him. "Did you miss me?"

He groaned and grimaced a little but she felt him holding her a little tighter and she lay her head against his chest and smiled at Hermione and Mary standing there together and she heard Hugo and Rosie and their grandparents in the kitchen and she sighed very, very deeply.

Turning her head, she grabbed her Daddy's cheeks and turned his face so she could speak into his ear again.

"I'm very happy, Daddy."

"I'm happy you're happy, my little witch," he answered and kissed her on the cheek.

_**xx**_


	66. Chapter 66

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**xx**_

_**2 years, 8 months and 17 days later:**_

He lay sideways, propped up on one elbow, had pushed his hair from his eyes and merely looked for a moment. He loved seeing her sleeping so peacefully, sometimes, when she dreamed, she even seemed to smile – and her lips twitched slightly. She was one of those people who used the entire bed while sleeping. At the moment, she was on her side, facing him, her legs spread out in the bed, one on top of the covers she had otherwise pulled up to her chin, one of her arms extended, her hand touching his stomach without her knowing, the other next to it. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, the light brown contrasting with the white she was lying on. One curl next to the other. It was even more unruly than usual – but maybe that was because of that shower they had taken together the night before – afterwards falling into bed with her hair still wet. And his hair still wet. And the rest of them quite wet.

He absolutely adored those curls. Liked pulling on them and seeing them bounce back.

But his favourite part of her was still – even after all this time – her eyelashes. He leant over and stared at her closed eyes. He couldn't remember how often he had stared at them, analysed them, touched them. Soft, tickling, tingling, wonderful eyelashes.

And he couldn't remember how often he had tried to count them. How often he had bent over just like this, in the early hours of the morning when the rest of the family was asleep and she lay there sleeping. When the children were still in their rooms and he had the time, before they had breakfast and before she went to work and before they sent Hugo to his school and before Ophelia and Rose went to their school, before Zoe began her crying, and before he went to Knockturn Alley to open his apothecary – before all the mayhem broke loose. Those were the minutes, sometimes hours, he loved the most. When she was just his and they were alone and he had time to try and count her eyelashes.

"Are you doing it again?" she grumbled sleepily.

"Go back to sleep," he replied softly. "And don't open your eyes."

She groaned. "Which one?"

"The left one. But don't open them."

She cracked her right eye open and looked at him leaning over her, smiling. "Good morning," she whispered.

"Close them, I said," he argued. "Don't move."

"Can I at least get a good-morning-kiss?" she complained and her eye twitched. It was too late now anyway.

"You moved," he complained.

She opened her eyes and snuggled into him a moment later. "You're weird with your obsession with my eyelashes, Severus," she spoke softly into his chest.

He shook his head and wrapped her tightly in his arms. "I'm not," he whispered. "And I'm not obsessed with your eyelashes."

"Oh but you are," she laughed. "And I don't mind one bit."

He growled and was only silenced when she tipped her head back a little and captured his lips with hers, kissing him gently.

He groaned, and grimaced when he heard voices outside their bedroom door. They had warded it the night before, after the shower, after the christening of Zoe and after all the people had gone. Well, he had to admit, there hadn't been that many. Judith, Jonathan, of course, Mary, of course, and, Hermione's insistence, Potter. Of course Potter had to be there. But he had come along and he could see that Hermione had been a little – just a tad, really, for a moment or two – pensive about the entire Weasley-matter.

After a nice, long temper-tantrum of Ronald Weasley – they had ignored them. Every single Weasley. Was fine by him. Not by the children, definitely not. But according to Knockturn Alley gossip, the Weasleys were of the opinion that Hermione deserved such a mean old man like him. And they were probably true.

But he had her. She was his little wifey (though she would probably hit him when he said this to her), the mother of his youngest, 4 month old daughter, a good stepmother to Ophelia (thought she preferred him to read to her, to console her, to be with her), mother to his stepchildren. Hugo and Rose who referred to him as – here it came – Seddy (a blend, Ophelia, who had made it up, despite herself calling her Daddy, of Severus and Daddy) and who had accepted him and preferred him to read their bedtime-stories.

And Hugo had turned to him in a way. Especially after Zoe had been born. Four females in the house – and still, Hugo and he secretly knew that it was them that ruled the family. Rose was the one who always begged to go to the apothecary with him. And Ophelia was always first in his arms when he came home at night and pulled away from Mary or Hermione – depending on how late he was.

Zoe – Zoe was amazing. Even though she did not do much yet. She smiled though when he picked her up and he loved her. He loved all of them. Maybe – just maybe – Ophelia a little more. But he tried not to show it too much.

"Mymy?" his girl called from outside the door and Hermione next to him pulled away completely and groaned.

"Your turn, Severus," she smiled sweetly.

"You're...," he didn't continue and merely got up, sending her a glare for a moment.

"But I love you," she replied, muffled as he head was back on her pillow and she had pulled the covers over her again.

"Yes, yes," he rolled his eyes and unwarded the door quickly and his stepdaughter and stepson ran into his legs.

"Seddy, Zoe's awake!" Hugo hugged his legs and darted past him after a moment into their bedroom – and Rosie – Rose smiled at him and a moment later, had jumped on their bed and he had to chuckle a little evilly.

Now the only question remained where his Ophelia was – but his girl was bright. And she had picked up Zoe and carried her carefully towards him. The eyes always on the baby and the floor and he smiled quietly.

"Good morning, my little witch," he said softly and she stood – and looked up and smiled.

"Daddy, I think Zoe's hungry," she said and nodded her head towards the baby that seemed to want to eat the dummy.

He hummed in agreement. "You into our bedroom and I'll bring the bottle," he said gently and bent down – just for a moment – and kissed his girls' foreheads quickly – Zoe's first, then Ophelia's – and when he watched the two of them disappear into the bedroom, he summoned the bottle for his youngest daughter and smirked a little guiltily. They kept magic, usually, to a minimum in their house. Mary never used it, he never did, Hermione never did. It would be, eventually, be difficult enough for Hugo. And they didn't have to add to that.

He remained standing in the doorway and stared at his family – his family – in the bed. Hermione in the middle and Zoe in her arms, Ophelia and Rose and Hugo by her side and she suddenly looked up at him and smiled at him and he couldn't help but smile at his family and feel very, very content. And he knew that he had done something right in his life.

_**xx**_

_**The End**_

_**xx**_

_**My dear readers, my darling reviewers, everyone who ever read a single chapter of this – THANK YOU!**_

_**I am very glad I could give you pleasure with this little story of mine – it gave me a lot of pleasure writing it. **_

_**I started writing on September 24th – can you believe that? Whew. **_

_**Thank you!**_

_**[and except, some time in the future, one-shots about Ophelia and Severus and Hermione and Rose and Hugo and the rest of them!]**_


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